


IDIC: Ambreigns

by ambreignstrain



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: But Mostly fluffy, Fluffy, M/M, angsty, minor Seth Rollins and other characters occasionally, these are just one shots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-08-10 23:57:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7866763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambreignstrain/pseuds/ambreignstrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations.  Or, there are many ways to Ambreigns.  This is a collection of prompt fills and one-shots I've posted to my Tumblr.  Figured I'd gather them all here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Joke's on You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a prompt I saw somewhere. Can't remember where. "Person A is on a first date with someone, and is trying to entertain them with corny jokes. Person A’s date doesn’t really find them all that funny. However, Person A notices that Person B (who’s dining alone at the table next to them) laughs quietly at all of the jokes."

**I. Joke's on You**

“‘-so I said, ‘Does your face hurt, too?’  And he goes, ‘No.  Why?’  And I go,’’Cuz it sure is killing me!’’

Dean Ambrose grins at his date across the table, waggles his eyebrows.  He's at least hoping for a smile or something to crack Seth's bored expression.

This is kind of a disaster.

For like the second time tonight, he hears a quiet laugh from beside him, but his date - this super hot architect he'd met at a bar last night - just rolls his eyes.  “That’s like the oldest joke in the book,” he complains before Dean can look around.  "Seriously."

Seth had insisted they meet at this stuffy little Italian restaurant for an actual face-to-face dinner because _he wasn't like that_ , apparently.  Wasn't into taking some grungy mechanic home without actually, like, talking to him first.

If the way he’s been sitting there staring at his beer is any indication, he’s regretting his decision.  But he’s got an ass for days, and looks like he’d be a tiger in bed, so Dean’s not giving up quite that easily.

Problem is, he'd already tried talking about himself and asking Seth about himself, but Seth's apparently not in the mood for talk.

He doesn't seem interested in being here at all.

Dumb jokes are Dean's last resort: just _something_ to lighten the mood.

“You hear about the dyslexic devil worshiper?” he tries.  “Sold his soul to Santa.”

There’s a quiet snort to his left, but Seth just glances at his watch.  “Yeah, very funny.”

“Oh, come on,” Dean wheedles.  “Two fish are in a tank.  One turns to the other and says, ‘How do you drive this thing?’”

This time, he tips his head a little to the left, listening, and sure enough, the guy over there snickers.  Somebody’s got a sense of humor, at least.

Seth, meanwhile, pulls out his cell phone.  Sighs.

“What about what the hurricane said to the coconut tree?  ‘Hold onto your nuts, ‘cuz this is no ordinary blow job.’”

More laughter next to him, but Seth doesn’t even look up from his phone.

“Guess you don’t wanna hear a joke about my dick, then, huh?” Dean says lamely.  Yeah, he can tell this is pretty much over.  “I don’t blame ya.  It’s too long.”

“Hey, so, I gotta go,” Seth says abruptly, to Dean’s complete lack of surprise.  “Sorry, something’s come up.  You can keep my entree.  Here.”  As he stands up, he digs a wallet out of his suit coat’s pocket, and frees a couple bills.  Twenties.  He drops them on the table.  “That’s for mine.”

“You don’t have to go, Seth,” Dean says, stung and kind of embarrassed.  He didn't think his jokes were _that_ bad.  They'd just met last night, and already this stuffy dickhead is cutting him off.  “You want me to stop, I’ll stop.  It’s fine.  I was just trying to lighten things up.  Come on.  Sit down.”

Seth finally makes eye contact.  “No, it’s just - this isn’t…  I just gotta go, is all.”

“Want me to walk to your car?”

“No, thanks.”  Seth’s already two steps toward the door. “Have a good night.”

“Man walks into a bar,” Dean mutters after him, rubbing his cheek.  “Says _ouch_.”

He’s so focused on Seth that the grunt of a laugh beside him startles him.

When he looks around, he nearly knocks over his beer.

‘Cuz _damn_ :

The guy smiling at him looks like a statue come to life: gray eyes in a model-handsome face, long dark hair, goatee, deep tan.  Hell of a nice smile.  Dark tee shirt tight enough to show off a lot of muscles.   Cool, intricate tattoo on one arm.  Looks like he'd be capable of seriously fucking someone up.

“Hey,” the guy says.  He’s alone at his table, a half-finished beer in front of him.  “You hear the race between the lettuce and the tomato?  The lettuce was _a head_ and the tomato was trying to _ketchup_.”

Just that quick, the cloud lifts away from over Dean’s head.  He grins back.  “Nice one. That’s a good one.  Know how NASA organizes a party?  They _planet_.”

“That’s terrible,” the guy replies, chuckling anyway.  He holds out a hand.  “I’m Roman.”

Dean leans over to shakes Roman’s hand.  “‘Course it’s terrible.  That’s what makes it funny.  And I’m Dean.”

“Good to meet you, Dean.”  Roman clears his throat.  “So, that was awkward.  Your friend there leaving like that?"

“Date,” Dean says, grabbing his beer.  “My date.  Guess he didn’t like my jokes.”

“Seemed a little uptight.”  There’s a beat of a pause.  “My date stood me up.  He was supposed to be here like an hour ago.  Want to join me?  I don't like eating alone.  And I don’t mind the jokes.  They are pretty funny.”

“I know, right?” Dean says, easing out of his seat.  “Like - you know why ghosts can’t have babies?  ‘Cuz they got a _Holloweenie_.”

Roman huffs a laugh, gray eyes bright, as Dean drops down in the seat across from him.  “So what do you do, Dean?”

“Mechanic,” Dean says.  “You?”

“I’m a vet,” Roman answers.

“Nice,” Dean says, draining the rest of his beer.  He likes animals.  “So you know what type of bees produce milk, then, right?  Boo-bees.”

‘Cuz who doesn’t love a good boob joke?

Dean certainly does, that’s that's for sure, and it pulls that nice, rich laugh out of Roman, too.  Even better is Roman's next question:  “That like how you call a nanny with breast implants a _faux_ pair?”

This might, Dean thinks, actually wind up being the best night ever.

It completely is.

When he wakes up the next morning, sore in all the best ways, Roman’s heavy arm still wrapped around him, Dean decides on the spot he’s going to go buy a book of the stupidest, corniest jokes ever conceived by mankind and send them to Seth Rollins as a thank you gift.

[ _End_ ]


	2. Watchers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was from CBD on Tumblr. The prompt was: Our apartments face each other.

**II. Watchers**

It was a kind of a shitty neighborhood, Roman  had to admit.  Full of saggy old apartment buildings stuck way too close together.  Lot of junked-out old cars everywhere.  People walked down the street fast, like they were in a hurry to be anywhere else.

Roman didn’t blame them.

He was here by necessity rather than choice; he’d lost his job at the gym, and finding a new job in a city that had been hit with a pretty bad recession was proving harder than he expected.  To try to stretch out his savings a little more, he’d downgraded from a much nicer place to this dump.

Wasn’t about to go crawling back home to his folks again, if he didn’t have to.

The apartment really was kind of a shithole.  The appliances were older than he was.  Looked like the linoleum on the floor and the wallpaper were having a competition to see who could peel off fastest.  Lots of old stains and cigarette burns in the carpet. 

But it had decent water pressure in the shower, along with a good supply of hot water, so it wasn't all bad.

Not much of a view, though.  That was the part he missed the most about his other place: it was up on a hill and afforded a nice view of the city.  Got real pretty in the morning, when the sun rose.

The only view he had now is the building right next door.  The person - _people?_ \- who lived in the apartment across the way kept their curtains shut, so looking out the window was like looking at someone who had their eyes closed.

Boring.

Until one day it wasn’t.

Roman sat at his kitchen table one Saturday, bleary, a cup of coffee slowly easing him into alertness.  In the background, some college football game was just getting started, the volume turned down to a mutter.

His hair had fallen out of its bun in his sleep, and some of it kept falling into his eyes.  Damn annoying.

It was when he went to pull it back off his face that he noticed some movement out of the corner of his eye.

And when he looked out the window, he noticed the apartment across the way had its curtains open.  Some shirtless dude with shaggy, sandy hair looked like he was boxing in front of it, his back to the window while the threw punches into the air.

Wasn’t even twenty feet between the buildings, so Roman see the dude pretty well: lean muscle, fairly tall (maybe), and he threw those punches like somebody who knew what he was doing.  Even had his hands taped.  Quick on his feet.  Started ducking and diving, weaving and bobbing.

Roman watched probably longer than he should have.

It was more interesting than the college football game.

It was the most interesting thing Roman had seen in weeks.

Which was a really sad state of affairs as far as his life was concerned.  Reality was, though, his buddies were all employed still, and could only hang on the weekends.  That, and he hadn't felt up to trying to pick somebody up at a bar lately.

The not-finding-a-job thing kind of had him down.

Boxer Boy kept it up for a good half-hour, at one point turning sideways long enough for Roman to see his profile.

Regular-looking, he guessed, maybe a little rough around the edges.  Like a lot of the people in the neighborhood here.

Hard to really tell, because he turned away pretty fast.

After he was done, Boxer Boy stood panting, hunched over, and then wandered into the apartment, and out of Roman’s view for a bit.  But just as Roman finished up his coffee and got ready to get showered and dressed, the guy wandered back in front of the window again, still shirtless, a bottle of water in one hand.

Roman looked away right as the dude was turning to face the window, suddenly embarrassed at himself.

_The hell am I doing?_

Quickly, he got up from his table and hurried off to go shower.

* * *

Boxer Boy was also Nunchuck Guy, apparently, because a couple days later, Roman sat watching him twirl a set of nunchucks around like some kind of wannabe ninja.

Pretty good at it, though, he had to admit - even though he was pretty sure he saw Nunchuck Guy whap himself in the head once, and for sure he hit his elbow hard enough that he had to shake his arm out.

As he did when he’d boxed, he kept his back to the window, for the most part, and, of course, was not wearing a shirt.

Roman, a stack of job applications in front of him, didn’t get much work done for that hour.

He looked away again - fast - every time the guy turned toward the window, but he was pretty sure his neighbor caught him looking once or twice.

Didn’t seem bothered, if he had.

Weirdly, Roman felt a little disappointed when his neighbor disappeared into his apartment and didn't come back.

* * *

In addition to nunchucks and boxing, Roman’s neighbor across the way did something that vaguely resembled yoga.

A day after the nunchucks, the Yoga Dude spent an hour doing a lot of push-up-type things, dips, squats, and some kind of pose where his ass was up in the air.  Conveniently at the right height for Roman to see it through the window, of course, and if Roman didn’t know any better, he’d swear it was intentional.

He knew better.

He just shouldn’t be looking into his neighbor’s apartment.

Closing his own curtains probably would be the best way, if his neighbor wasn’t going to.

But that thought actually annoyed Roman, because why the hell should he close his curtains?  

Why couldn’t his Yoga Dude close his curtains and work out in private?

* * *

Roman came home one afternoon after a promising interview just in time to catch Window Guy - that was Roman's official nickname for him - dancing around buck-ass naked.

 _Trying_ to dance, maybe?

Whatever he was doing, he wasn't doing it _well_.  It seemed more like spastic gyrations or something, but he seemed to be having a good old time in there with his junk flying every which-way.

He for sure caught Roman staring once or twice, but didn’t do much more than grin and keep right on doing what he was doing.

Embarrassed, Roman made his way into the kitchen to make lunch, and tried not to look.

Failed.

He failed so hard.

Oblivious to Roman’s inner turmoil, his idiot neighbor danced on.

* * *

If there was any point Roman should have closed his curtains, it should have been then.

But he didn’t.

He felt like he shouldn’t have to.

He had every right to leave his curtains open.

No, what he did was move his kitchen table away from the window and start working out again himself.  He needed it.

Walking around to all the interviews was a good way to get him decent cardio, but he missed lifting and doing the higher-intensity workouts he used to do at the gym every day.

He dug out his old dumbbells and kettle weights, and used the open space of his dining area as a kind of makeshift gym.  And it felt damn good to strip his own shirt off o he could lift and dip and squat and flex right there.  Breaking an honest sweat was just thing he needed to shake out the cobwebs of weeks of not being able to afford gym time.

At one point, while he was swapping dumbbells for his kettle weights, he stole a quick look over one shoulder.  Didn’t get a real good look, but caught just enough of one to know he had an audience.

The thought thrilled him more than it probably should have.

He made damn good and sure to show off his strength, picking up the heaviest set of dumbbells he could safely handle and curling them until his veins popped.

When he actually turned toward to the window, he found his audience had disappeared.

But that was okay.

He’d made his point.

* * *

He’d never really been much of one to go without a shirt in his apartment, but suddenly that seemed like the thing to do.

It was ridiculous.

This whole thing was ridiculous, but he was bound and determined not to let Window Guy get under his skin.  So he paraded around shirtless - and even sometimes just in his underwear - and pretended not to notice when Window Guy paused whatever he was doing to watch.

He worked out daily in the early afternoon, generally as Window Guy was finishing his workout.  Which, of course, left them both plenty of time to sit there watching each other.

For weeks this went on.

And it never occurred to Roman, not once, to just go over and talk to the guy.

_What if he’s weird?_

_What if he’s an asshole?_

_What if he thinks I’m an asshole?  
_

It was just a game, anyway.

Although…

More often than he cared to admit, Roman usually ended these stalking/workout sessions by retreating to his bedroom to jerk off, quick and dirty, hurriedly trying to rub out any unwanted thoughts that tried to creep into his mind.

Like: _Wonder what his name is.  Wonder what he does.  Wonder what color his eyes really are._

(He thought maybe blue, but it was hard to tell from this distance.)

Window Guy worked nights, that much Roman knew, because he always left his apartment around six p.m. and always got back home around two or three in the morning.  He came home alone, and usually went to sleep between four or five in the morning.

He’d get up around eleven-thirty and start his workout by noon.

Not that Roman was keeping track or anything.

Not that Roman deliberately took to sitting on his kitchen table in his underwear around that that time or anything.

It was comfortable.  Summer was hotter than usual, and there was no air conditioning in the apartment.  Sitting in his underwear kept him cool.

Wasn’t his problem if his neighbor couldn’t keep his eyes to himself.

* * *

Window Guy walked around naked more often over the next couple weeks.

Apparently he had no shame.

(Nothing to be ashamed of, that was for sure; had a hell of a nice body.)

He liked to stand there, close to the window so his dick was hidden, turn sideways, throw his head back, and run his fingers across his chest.  Flick a nipple.  Slide his hand down lower.

Roman knocked over more than a couple cups of coffee when he did that.

* * *

Still no jobs.

That promising interview turned into nothing.

Roman watched his bank account slowly dwindling away, worry gnawing at him.

About the only distraction he had was Window Guy.

Who was occupying Roman's attention way, _way_ too much lately.

It got to the point Roman actually found himself glancing across the way anytime he saw movement.  He was curious, had to admit, about what Window Guy got up to when he wasn't working out or parading around his apartment buck naked.

There was no TV Roman could see (although he had an admittedly limited view of the apartment) and no computer, but he frequently saw Window Guy with a book in hand.

Never saw him dancing with anyone.

Frequently saw him dancing naked by himself, which was...strange.

Strange, but charming.

A couple Saturdays, Window Guy left after his workout (and after he watched Roman), and didn’t come back for the whole day, much to Roman's disappointment.  And a couple other Saturdays, Roman went out with his cousins and some friends to keep himself from turning into a pathetic hermit.  When he got back, he saw Window Guy glance over like he'd been waiting.

Roman didn't feel quite so pathetic after that.

They stared at each other more blatantly every day, not even bothering to hide it.

But like a couple of weirdoes, they still didn’t talk to each other.

It wasn’t that Roman didn’t want to; he was just worried about what might happen if they _did._

Easier to leave things this way.

* * *

Apparently he was the only one to think that, though.

* * *

One day, out of the blue, Window Guy apparently got sick of waiting.

On this particular day, that goddamn showoff decided to workout in nothing but a jockstrap, his well-toned ass perfectly visible as he did his dips and squats.

Roman's stupid dick got even stupider than usual, hardening right up in his underwear while he watched.

Feeling a little dirty, he palmed himself, squeezing - not trying to jerk off, really; just trying to alleviate the pressure.

Across the way, his neighbor went into that butt-up-in-the-air yoga pose and spread his legs wide.

Roman bit back an embarrassing noise and squeezed himself harder, gave himself more friction, all the while trying not to imagine himself fucking the guy in that position.

Suddenly, Window Guy stood up and turned around so he was looking Roman right in the eye.

Face flaming, Roman froze, hand stilling.

Window Guy grinned, shook his shaggy hair off his face.  He slipped a hand down the lean plane of his body to touch his own dick, which was still hidden by the jock strap.  Never once breaking eye contact with Roman, he flattened his palm over himself and rubbed slowly up and down.

He didn’t stop, and Roman didn’t stop watching.

He slipped his dick out of the jockstrap, and wrapped a hand around it, and Roman still didn’t stop watching.

He began to jerk himself off, hand moving lightly along his shaft, and Roman still didn’t stop watching.

In fact, Roman freed his own dick from its confines and stroked it in time with what his neighbor was doing, slow and easy, flushed and probably more turned on than he’d ever been.

But just as he was really getting into it, Window Guy suddenly stopped and reached behind him for something.

A piece of paper.  He slapped it against the window.

Roman didn’t even have to squint to read it: _STOP STARING.  CUM OVER.  -4C_

_Cum over._

_Oh._

Despite the demand on the piece of paper, Roman thought his neighbor looked a little uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if Roman really would or not.

Like there was any question.

Shit, Roman might have broken land-speed records trying to get over to his neighbor’s place, throwing on the first clothes he could find and jamming his feet into sandals he wasn’t sure even matched.

After that it was a run down the stairs and a race up four flights that left him panting and out of breath by the time he located a shabby door with a crooked 4C on it.

The guy who answered the door was about Roman’s height, shaggy sandy hair, blue eyes, and his mouth quirked into a grin that showed off a set of dimples.  Nice body, too: those broad shoulders that Ved down into a narrow waist.  Long and lean.

And for whatever reason Window Guy burst out laughing when he caught a look at Roman.  “Holy shit, dude,” he said, his voice low and rough and pleasant, “how bad do you want me, anyway?”

“Huh?”

Window Guy flicked his chin at Roman’s front.  “Look.”

Roman looked, felt mortification creep in.  Not only had he thrown his shorts and tee-shirt on inside-out, he’d also left a sock hanging out over the waistband of his shorts.  And he definitely wasn’t wearing matching sandals.  Come to that, he hadn’t even bothered to put his hair up.

Or comb it today.

_Jesus._

But Window Guy just laughed and moved aside to let Roman in.

“Shut up,” Roman grunted, and as soon as the door clicked shut, he shoved his idiot neighbor against the wall beside it and kissed him hard and fast square on the mouth, fingers curling around the jockstrap’s elastic.  Window Guy kissed him back for all he was worth, an arm snaking around Roman’s shoulder to draw him closer, tongue slipping into Roman’s mouth like it had every right to be there.

Roman had some vague thought about trying to make it to the bedroom or some other horizontal surface, but changed his mind when he felt a hard dick press against his thigh, when he felt fingers hook into his shorts’ waistband and send them to the floor.

He shoved Window Guy's jockstrap out the way and took hold of his dick, while Window Guy did the same.  There was no finesse to it, no slow-down-and-savor.  Roman was about out of his mind with the need to get off, and rutted into Window Guy's hand like a horny teenager.

They both did, the two of them grunting and shoving against each other, trying to get more friction, frantically kissing and free hands scrabbling for a hold.

And way too soon, that low heat pooled in his belly, and he felt himself soaring over that edge, coming with a groan that he smothered against the side of Window Guy's neck.

Window Guy was right behind him, coming hard in a string of curses bitten into Roman’s shoulder, his mess joining Roman’s all over their hands.

Out of breath and buzzing, Roman sagged onto Window Guy and just breathed.

* * *

Afterward, they wobbled away from the wall and into the bathroom.

The apartment was almost identical to Roman’s, but with everything on the opposite side and a lot less stuff in it.

As they washed up at the little sink, Roman’s neighbor looked over and said, “Hi.”

Roman chuckled.  “Hey.”

“So, I’m Dean.”

“Roman.”  He grabbed the towel and dried himself off.  “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, splashing some water onto his face.  “It is.  Ya stalker.”

“Me?” Roman spluttered.  “You watched me, too, man.”

“I never said I _wasn’t_ a stalker.  I liked watching you.  You’re really fuckin’ hot, you know it?  Nice tat, by the way.  It’s cool.”

“Thanks, man,” Roman said.  “And - yeah, a few people have called me that before.  You’re not so bad yourself.  Damn tease.”

A dimpled grin, and, “Don’t I know it.”

“So…”  Roman cleared his throat, leaned against the door casing behind him.  “I’m wondering why we didn’t do this sooner.”

“I didn’t know if you wanted to,” Dean said, straightening away from the sink.  Still naked.  Uncertain again.  “If you were into, y’know, me that way, or if it was just you gettin’ off on somebody watching you or what.”

“All of the above,” Roman shrugged.  “I was over there thinking how good it’s gonna feel to get you all bent over in that yoga pose and take you.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’ll happen pretty definitely,” Dean said, his smile reemerging.  He took the towel out of Roman hand and dried himself off.  “I may have new yoga poses to show you, too.  I’ve been practicing.  I'm super flexible.”

Roman grinned himself, relieved that this wasn’t actually over already.  “Can’t wait to try it out, then.”

Dean laughed himself and shook his head.  “God, was that like the world’s longest game of foreplay, or what?”

“Probably,” Roman said agreeably.  “So you were doing it on purpose.”

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Dean said, stepping closer.  “I’ve only wanted you since I first saw you.”

“Good to know,” Roman rumbled.

Dean leaned in for another kiss, and Roman was only too happy to give it to him.

* * *

During one of their _many_ post-orgasm conversations that following week, Roman let slip he was unemployed.

Dean immediately mentioned he was working at a bar that needed a bouncer.

Despite his misgivings, Roman took the job.

He needed the money.

It wasn’t bad; the bar was always plenty busy, and there was definitely a need for somebody to keep order.  Some nights, it was a little boring, and other nights it was so wild they needed the cops to control things, but for the most part, it was okay.

Plus, and best in Roman’s estimation, it gave him another chance to indulge in his new third-favorite pastime (right behind watching Dean do naked yoga, and watching Dean dance naked): watching Dean pour drinks.

Dean had a flair about him, a certain wildness to what he was doing that made him a hell of a showman behind the bar.  People actually stopped to watch what he was doing.

Go figure.

Plus, it was fun to watch customers try to flirt with Dean, while Roman himself stayed secure in the knowledge they didn’t have a chance.

Roman had plenty of opportunities to fuck Dean in all those yoga poses.

He even let Dean talk him into reciprocating, folding himself up like an awkward paper crane so he could experience it for himself.

It was all fun.

But watching was still the most fun part, and he did that plenty.

It was even better knowing for sure the show was just for him.

[ _End_ ]


	3. Puppy Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also from CBD. Prompt is at the end. It's kind of a spoiler.

**III. Puppy Love**

Dean Ambrose has always wanted to get a dog.

Like seeing the Bengals win the Super Bowl and seeing the Reds winning the World Series, it’s a want that’s always stuck with him, even after he finally left Cincinnati and carved himself out a nice life in Florida.

Never really has had a chance to _get_ a dog.

He’s always lived in places where they don’t allow pets, but a steady job doing custom carpentry and cabinets has paid off well, and left him with more than enough money to afford a house.

And to his surprise, he’d actually wanted to buy one.

Surprise because he wasn’t exactly the kind of guy to just put down roots, but he honestly liked the city.  Seemed mellow and laid back.  Nice vibe to it.  Big enough there were things to do, but not so big that it felt crowded.

Not a lot of tourists, unlike some Florida cities, which meant beaches that weren’t too packed and plenty of room to move.

Decent house, too: three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a big yard with a real nice deck.

Good neighborhood.

And he’s even gonna get a dog.

Not bad for a kid from the Cincinnati slums.

* * *

The only question had been whether to buy a puppy or adopt a dog from a shelter.

And it really isn’t even a question.

Dean can’t really see himself shelling out thousands of dollars for a puppy - not when, like all the ads say, there are hundred of dogs out there who need a home and a second chance.

How well he knows that feeling.

The Humane Society building is situated on a few acres outside of town, a nice brand-new building some local rich family funded and maintains.

First thing that greets Dean’s ears as he climbs out of his pick-up is the sound barking.

There’s a huge caged-off area behind the building, where he can see what he assumes are volunteers in matching purple shirts walking dogs around.  More dogs in outdoor kennels beyond that, some jumping at their fences, others barking their heads off, others just chilling.

Lot of dogs.

Dean adjusts his jacket, wipes off some sawdust, and heads inside.

It’s like walking into a doctor’s office, the way there’s a lobby with a reception desk, chairs around the edges of the walls, and a couple closed wooden doors that no doubt lead to where all the animals are.

The young dude at the desk looks up from his computer and smiles.

After Dean explains he’s just moved into a house and is looking to adopt a dog, the kid nods and says, “Let me page one of our volunteers to show you around.  Get a better idea of what you’re looking for."

“Cool,” Dean says.  “Thanks.”

The first time Dean Ambrose meets Roman Reigns, it is not the smoothest meeting in the history of mankind.

It is, in fact, the textbook definition of awkward.

After a couple minutes, the heavy wooden door opens and this tall, very hot dude wearing a purple tee shirt and white basketball shorts steps through.  He’s got dark hair, a matching goatee, and piercing see-through-you eyes in a face that wouldn’t be out of place on a fucking magazine.  The tee shirt doesn’t do much to hide his body, either.

Kind of guy everyone creams themselves over.

His name tag - a bright yellow paw print - identifies him as Roman.

The kid at the reception desk tells Roman what Dean’s here for, and Roman smiles over at Dean.

It’s a good smile.

Dean’s throat goes a little dry.

Roman makes his way over to the chairs just as Dean stands up and tries to meet Roman halfway.

_Tries._

His foot gets tangled in the chair leg - because _of course it does_ \- and he finds himself pitching forward, arms pinwheeling, trying to keep himself from falling flat on his face.

Because his luck is just that amazing, he staggers headfirst into the Roman guy, hard enough to send them both tumbling onto the floor.

Even better: Roman lands on his ass.

And somehow, some way, Dean faceplants into Roman's crotch.

_Of course._

And of course Roman is wearing fucking basketball shorts.

There’s dick.

There’s definitely dick right against his cheek.

A lot of dick.

Possibly balls by his chin.

Which is nothing new; Dean certainly knows his way around guys’ equipment, and yeah, this is equipment he wouldn’t mind working, but still.

_Still._

“Um,” Roman says, as the giggling receptionist says, “Oh my God, are you guys okay?”

Carefully, trying to salvage the tiny bit of his dignity he has left to his name, Dean pushes himself to his hands and knees, pulling his face out of this Roman’s junk.  His whole body feels so fucking hot he could probably fry five dozen eggs on it.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he croaks.

He has never wished more that a hole in the floor would open up and swallow him.

“It’s okay, man,” Roman chuckles.  Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees him get to his feet.  “No harm done.  Are you all right?”

“…yeah.”  Dean stands slowly himself, looking everywhere but at Roman.  He brushes invisible dust off his jeans, tries to calm himself down.

The urge to turn tail and run the fuck out of here is almost overwhelming.

Roman holds out a hand.  “Well, that was…interesting.  I’m Roman.”

Dean blinks at Roman’s hand for a second before offering his own to shake.  “Dean.”

“Nice to meet you,” Roman says.  It’s friendly enough.  Doesn’t sound like he’s laughing at Dean, anyway, and the receptionist has stopped giggling.  That’s something.  “So, you’re looking for a dog, huh?  Well, why don’t you come with me, and we’ll get started on seeing if we can match you up with one of the dogs here.”

“All right,” Dean says quietly, taking his hand back.

* * *

Roman leads him through the door, which opens into a hallway surrounded on both sides by enclosures full of cats on one side and birds on the other.  The birds have branches and perches aplenty, while the cats have carpeted cat houses and those tall towers to climb on.

“So,” Roman says, once the silence has become a little awkward, “what size you looking for?  Big?”

“What?” Dean chokes, his cheeks flaring again.

“What size dog?” Roman asks.  He sounds way too amused for Dean’s liking.  “You want a big one, medium one?  Any particular breed?  Color?”

“Uh…”  Dean wipes damn palms off on his jeans, tries to look anywhere but at Roman.  He hadn’t actually thought about it that hard.  “I don’t want a really small one.  I do a lot of outdoorsey stuff, so I think…uh, I think I’d rather have, y’know, medium or bigger.  As far as color ‘n stuff, breed, I ain’t picky.”

There’s a definite smile in Roman’s voice when he says, “Good.  I like ‘em easy.”

“I - see?” Dean says.  The floor’s definitely interesting.  Tiles.  Tiles are interesting.

“Hard can be fun, too,” Roman says.

Dean very nearly trips over his feet again.  There’s no way…  He couldn’t have…  Could he?  “Okay…?”

“The challenge is, I mean,” Roman says smoothly.  “People who are hard to please.  So you got any kids?  Any family?  Anybody in your house allergic to dogs at all?”

“No,” Dean says, grateful for the subject change.  “No, it’s just me.”

“All by yourself, huh?” Roman says.  “Interesting.  Anyway, okay, well that helps me narrow it down some.”  He leads a bewildered Dean around a corner ( _Interesting?  The fuck?_ ), and toward a door that leads outside.  “So a companion dog is what you’re looking for, then.  You ever had a dog before?”

“I haven’t, no,” Dean admits, glancing through the window at all the dogs outside.  “Always wanted to, but I never could ‘cuz, uh, I lived in apartments.  Now I own a house and a shop, so I figure, y’know, I can take the dog with me when I go work and stuff.  There’s yards at both places.  Plenty of room to run.”

“Awesome, man,” Roman says, shouldering the door open.  “What do you do for a living?”

“Carpentry,” Dean answers, raising his voice to be heard over all the barking.  He guesses the questions are part of the shelter’s way of getting to know him a little.  Makes sense, he guesses.  “Cabinets. That kind of thing.  I’m a contractor.  That is a lot of dogs.”

What’s out there are these covered pod-type things that have four sides with three pens on each side.  Each pen has a dog house with two doors, and most of the pens close to where they’re standing have a couple dogs in them.

“It is, unfortunately,” Roman says.  “We’re pretty close to capacity right now, so if I can help you find a dog or two, it’s gonna make my day.  Hopefully yours, too.  You won’t be able to take one today.  There’s an application you gotta fill out, and we gotta do a home check and check your references, but we can at least start the process, if someone here catches your eye.  Do you just want to wander, or you want some recommendations?”

Dean looks around the place, suddenly overwhelmed.  It’s not that he wants to be anywhere near Roman right now, after that disaster earlier, but he’d probably just spend forever spinning his wheels and not end up picking anything.  “I don’t know where to start.”

He still doesn’t make eye contact, although he accidentally glances at the front of Roman’s shorts and nearly pulls something in his neck when he looks away.

“Let me help you, man,” Roman says.  “I don’t mind a bit.”

He takes Dean on something of a whirlwind tour of the place, taking Dean around to visit cage after cage of dogs: everything from breeds he recognizes like a lumbering Bulldog and some friendly-looking Pit Bull types to mutts of all shapes and sizes.  There’s big and little, short-hair and long, some who bark and wag their tails and jump up against the cage doors, and others that just sit quietly and watch.

The cages all have nametags, too, which give the ages and breeds of the dogs.

Roman is a good tour guide, Dean finds, talking about a lot of the dogs like he knows them personally.  Seems to really like what he does, like the chance to talk about them all, and doesn’t lose the smile in his voice at all.

If he’s at all bothered by the fact that he’d had Dean’s face in his crotch half an hour ago, it absolutely doesn’t show.

Dean, on the other hand, can’t shake the embarrassment.

But he doesn’t mind listening to Roman talk about the dogs.  He makes them all sound special, even the ones he points out that have had tough lives.

A lot of them have.

There’s a pretty Husky who’d been abandoned by her owners after they moved.

A pair of Boxer pups that someone had thrown out of a car.  (Fortunately, they hadn’t been hurt beyond minor bumps and bruises, and were now completely healed, but even so, that made Dean’s fists clench.)

A lot of dogs here, he learns were surrendered after their owners either moved or couldn’t take care of them anymore.

And when he’s talking about this stuff, Roman’s voice changes, deepens with anger and something Dean suspects is sadness.

He gets that.

There are so many dogs here.

They come to one cage where there’s a couple scruffy ten month-old Lab mixes named Archie and Belle.  They’re both tan and medium-sized, with one slightly taller than the other.  One of them is missing part of an ear and one eye.  The other has a stump where the tail should be and appears to be missing a couple of toes.

But they both run up to their cage door, wagging their butts like they’re just the happiest dogs in the world, mouths open so wide when they pant it looks like they’re smiling.

Dean hunkers down to look at them.

Immediately they both try to stick their noses through the wire to sniff at him.  The one missing an eye yips at him when he reaches a couple fingers toward the cage.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Roman shuffle back over to him.  “Something catch your eye?”

Dean flicks his chin at the two dogs.  “What happened?”

“We don’t know,” Roman admits.  “They were found under a bridge about six months ago.  Both of them were in real rough shape.  From what I remember, we thought they’d been attacked by something.  But they’re tough.  Bounced back, and they’re completely healthy now.  We had a volunteer trainer work with them, and they’re both good dogs, other than they don’t seem to do too well if you separate ‘em.  We’re hoping someone will take them both.”  There’s a beat of a pause.  “Any of these dogs, we can grab leashes and take them out for you to walk around with in the yard, if you want.”

“Can I…?  These two?” Dean asks.

There’s just something about them.

“Sure,” Roman says.  “Hold tight.”

* * *

Dean knows he’s found the dogs he wants the second he offers them a hand to sniff.

They both start licking it like crazy, tan butts just a-wagging.

Roman, holding both leashes, chuckles.  “They like you.”

“They got good taste,” Dean jokes.  Still not looking up.  “Or maybe I taste good?”

“I’d say they have good taste,” Roman says.  “Can I-?  You know, it’s no big deal that you fell on me.  You don’t have to be so embarrassed about it.  It was actually kind of funny.”

“I fell on your _dick_ , dude,” Dean’s stupid mouth  blurts.  “I think I have plenty to be embarrassed about.”

“You’re not the first guy who’s done that,” Roman says.  “Well, you’re the first who actually _fell_ on it, but you’re not the first guy who’s had their face there.  Trust me, it ain’t worth being embarrassed about.  I thought it was hilarious.”

“Of course you did, jerk,” Dean mutters, bending down to pet the dogs.  Hot all over again, especially at the implication Roman’s into guys.  “You weren’t the one who made an ass out of yourself.  I’m usually a lot smoother when I go down on a guy.”

That last part is barely a mutter, but it makes Roman chuckle, quiet and low.

But Dean busies himself getting to know Archie and Belle, who both wiggle over to him and are so enthusiastic that they almost knock him over.

They’re in this rectangular enclosure, about thirty feet long and twenty feet wide - not huge, but big enough that Dean can throw a tennis ball or two for the dogs, who both go racing off after it, just as wild and carefree as you please.  They’ll for sure be able to keep up when he’s running and probably even when he’s biking, if he doesn’t push too hard.  Give him something to do at night besides sit on his ass and watch TV, too.

Looking at them, you’d never know there was anything the matter with them.

Even if they’re a little scarred and dinged up, they’re still just a couple of goofy, happy-go-lucky dogs.

And Dean's basically a fucking smitten sap.

He finally looks over at Roman, who’s smiling gently at him.  “I’ll take ‘em both.”

“Good call,” Roman says.  “In that case, why don’t you head back up front while I put these two back in their pen.  Go ahead and start filling out the paperwork.  I’ll be up when I’m done.”

About ten minutes later, Roman wanders up from the back, just as Dean’s finishing with the form.

Kid at the reception desk looks around at Roman and says, “So Archie and Belle got a home, huh?”

“Yep,” Roman says.  “Looks like a good one.”

Dean feels himself flush, but keeps his head down over his paperwork.

When he’s all done, and he’s handed the kid the adoption fee for both dogs, he starts to leave, but pauses when he hears Roman says, “Let me walk to your car.”

“Oh-kay,” Dean says slowly, frowning.

Once the shelter’s doors have closed behind them, Roman says, “I’d really like to buy you a drink one night.  Or maybe you could buy me one, seeing as how you fell on my junk.”

Dean snorts.  It’s a little less mortifying now.  “I suppose I could do that.  When?”

“Tonight?”  Roman sounds hopeful.  “I’ll be done here around six.”

“Works for me.”  Not like he’s doing anything else.  “Want to just meet somewhere, or…?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.  You ever been to that bar Shifter’s downtown?  Off Lincolnway?  It’s that new sports place.  We could meet there around seven-thirty or eight.”

“I’ve been by there a few times,” Dean nods.  “I’ll meet you there, then.”

And he climbs into his truck, warm and stupidly happy.

* * *

Three days later, as soon as the call comes in, Dean yanks on his jacket and heads straight to the shelter, sawdust still clinging to his hair and his clothes.

Inside, he finds Roman standing right in front of the reception desk, grinning, the  freshly-washed and excited Archie and Belle on brand-new leashes.

“Congratulations, Dean,” he says.  “You’re a dog owner.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, hunkering down to scratch both dogs’ heads.

Roman helps load the dogs into the truck (although it’s not actually that necessary: Archie jumps right in, and Belle makes it up after a couple false starts on her own), and, as he’d promised, hops into the passenger side while Dean climbs in behind the wheel.

They head out to Dean’s house, where they spend the rest of the afternoon wearing the dogs out in the backyard (Dean had bought like half a store’s worth or dog toys - so many the dogs didn’t even know what to play with), eating way too much barbeque, and talking until long after the sun goes down.

The dogs pass out in the living room, exhausted, but clearly happy.

Dean and Roman eventually retreat to the bedroom.

When Dean falls on Roman’s dick for the second time, it’s not an accident.

And he’s absolutely not embarrassed.

[End]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was: "I tripped and fell int your crotch. End me now, please."


	4. Miscommunication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was for msabrina1984 on Tumblr. The prompt was: "I said 'movie day' - not 'moving day.'"

**IV.  Miscommunication**

It’s inevitable that they fight.

All couples do, eventually.

Everybody and their dogs know that Dean Ambrose and Roman Reigns are stupidly, _stupidly_ in love with each other.  Hard to miss the way Dean’s guarded eyes soften when he sees Roman walking his way, or the way Roman’s smile lights up his whole face.  Or the way they drift toward each other like a magnet drawn to metal, Roman’s hands sneaking over to land in the center of Dean’s back, and Dean leaning into the touch.  Or the way one will start to say something, and the other finishes the thought.  Or how sometimes it’s like they’re off in their own private world, full of their own special in-jokes and shit-flinging and their weird need to constantly one-up each other.

Half the time, they don’t even seem to notice they’re doing it.

But even the most in-tune couples have their moments where they find each other annoying as hell, where their opinions don’t mesh and they can’t find common ground, where one’s bad habit of leaving towels on the floor or putting a mostly-empty carton of milk back in the refrigerator leads to harsh words and hurt feelings.

Roman and Dean aren’t immune.

Dean’s a welder at a busy trailer manufacturing company.  It’s a good, steady job that pays well and gives Dean the kind of structured but, still relatively relaxed working environment he actually needs.  And he flourishes at it, quickly working his way up to a senior position.

Roman teaches world history and is an assistant coach on the high school football team - one of the youngest in the state.  It’s also a good, steady job, and Roman takes to it like a duck in water, becoming one of the more popular teachers with students and the staff.

It means a lot of long hours for both of them: Dean when things get behind at the plant, and Roman especially during football season.

There are times when they don’t see a lot of each other in a week.

They don’t live together; Roman’s apartment is a just up the street from the school, but it’s  about a twenty-plus minute drive out to where Dean works.  Dean’s place is only about a five minute drive from where he works.  When they’re both busy, it’s easier for both of them to just stay at their own places and call.

Which sucks.

Especially when Dean falls into one of his periodic funks and just doesn’t feel like going anywhere.

Roman usually just goes over to hang at Dean’s place.

But sometimes he’s tired, too, and doesn’t feel like making the drive.

One time, Roman tells Dean that, and that sets off probably their worst fight, with Dean snapping he’s tired and he’s not forcing Roman to come over, and Roman sniping back that he’d never get to see Dean otherwise if he didn’t because somebody was kind of a selfish dickhead who put laying around at home over spending time together.

Round and around it goes, with Dean accusing Roman of being too pushy sometimes and Roman accusing Dean of being too distant.  They both accuse each other of being stubborn, which makes Roman  laugh because Dean is the most stubborn, determined dude Roman’s ever met.

And it’s just downhill from there, with Roman finally snapping and shouting about how tired of Dean’s selfish bullshit that he is, that he needs Dean to be here for him sometimes and it seems like Dean never is.  Not lately.  

Dean takes that completely the wrong way, his insecurity rearing its ugly head when he shouts back that if he’s not good enough for Roman, then maybe Roman should just go find somebody who is.

He hangs up, leaving a fuming, hurt, and flabbergasted Roman holding the phone, too angry to try to call back.

For the next week, he doesn’t try to call back.

It’s miserable, and as pissed off as he is, he still misses Dean and his stupid jokes and his yoga and the good-natured teasing like he’d miss his hand if it got cut off.  But he figures they just need some time to cool off, so he stays firm in his resolve not to pick up the phone.

They’ve been together almost two years, and while they’ve never had a fight quite like that, they’ve had enough big arguments that he’s not worried about things being over.

In fact, _over_ is the furthest from his mind when, the following Saturday, he finally gives in and makes the call.

Dean answers on the second ring with a tired-sounding, “ _Yeah_?”

Not his usual, _What up, Rome?_  Roman shakes his head.  “You working today?”

“ _Just got done_ ,” Dean says.

“Good,” Roman says, and adds in a tone that brooks no refusal, “It’s movie day.  Get your ass over here.”

It’s an invitation to come over and work everything out.  Also to sit all close together and mindlessly vegetate over stupid action flicks until they’re both bored and horny.

Movie days generally involve a lot of sex.

He figures Dean will get the hint.

On the other end of the line, he hears a heavy sigh, and, “ _I’ll be there in half an hour._ ”

Which in Dean-speak usually means ‘I’ll be there sometime within the next three house.  Maybe.’

Roman has the popcorn ready anyway, and for once, Dean’s right on time.

Looks completely beaten down, Dean does, with dark circles under his eyes, his hair even more unkempt than usual.  Still in his work clothes, too, his grimy jeans and sweaty tank top.  He’s got some empty boxes in his hands for some reason, and doesn't make eye contact.  

“Let’s just get this over with,” he mutters.

“Get what over with?” Roman asks from the couch, confused.  “What are the boxes for?”

“Moving day,” Dean tells his boots.  “You want me to get my shit outta here, right?”

“What?  No,” Roman says.  “Dean, no.  I said _movie_ day, dumb-ass.  Not _moving_ day.  I don’t want you to move your stuff out.  I wanted you to come over and let’s talk, that’s all.”  Here he hesitates, frowning.  “Do you…?  I mean, are you wanting it to be over?”

“No,” Dean answers, almost before Roman even finishes asking the question.  “No, Jesus.”  He drops the boxes by the door like they're red hot.  “I thought _you_ did.  I thought you were telling me to come move my shit out of here.”

“ _Movie_ day," Roman reiterates, chuckling.  “I said _movie_ day.  You really need to get your hearing checked.  You’re getting deaf in your old age.”

“Fuck you, old man,” Dean says with a trace of his usual good humor.  Exhausted blue eyes finally meet Roman’s.  “Lemme grab a shower real quick.”

“Okay,” Roman says.  “Oh, but Dean?  You’re more than enough for me.  Don’t ever let me hear you saying that again.  I love you.  You know that.”

Dean nods.  “Love you, too,” he says roughly.  “Sorry if I haven’t been here for you lately.  I missed you.”

Roman smiles at that.  “Me too.  Now go wash your filthy ass up and get out here.”

About ten minutes later, Dean pads back out into the living room wearing a pair of shorts and one of Roman’s soft old tee shirts.  Without invitation, he flops down on the couch and stretches out with the back of his head pillowed on Roman’s thigh, and one hand over his stomach.

It’s his favorite place to be he admitted once, and Roman’s always happy to have him there.  And, as always, Roman’s fingers find their way into the damp, unruly forest of Dean’s hair, lightly combing through it.

“You look tired,” he remarks after he starts the movie.   _Die Hard._ Dean’s favorite.

“Haven’t slept too good,” Dean admits.

“Thought we were done, huh?” Roman asks.

“Wouldn’t have blamed ya,” Dean says.  “I’ve kinda sucked lately.  And not in a good way.”

Roman settles back against his cushion.  “We both have, babe.  Something goin’ on at work, or…?”

“New supervisor,” Dean admits.  “The Dickhead.  Last week, there was a change to one of the prints, but Engineering didn’t bring it down until after we were already done with the frame.  Wasn’t my fault, but The Dickhead threatened to write me up anyway.  Fortunately, Sami stuck up for me.  But, yeah, he’s been a prick, and it’s made me a prick, too.”

“Sorry,” Roman says, digging in a little deeper to massage Dean’s scalp.  “That sucks.”

“Might be looking for a new job before too long.”

“Whatever you gotta do, babe.”  Roman snorts, decides a change of subject is in order.  “I can’t believe you thought I said moving day.”

Dean goes quiet for a bit, his attention on the TV.  Eventually, he says, “I’m pretty sure I heard _movie_ day, but after that fight, I kinda expected the worst.  Dumb.”  He clears his throat.  “I worry sometimes ‘cuz I don’t know if I really do much for you.  You know?  I’m over at my apartment and you’re here workin’ on your school stuff, and…  I don’t know.  Feels like I really don’t do a lot.  I want to.  I just don’t know what.”

“I don’t need you to do a million things for me,” Roman says.  “Cheesy as it is, I just need you.  When you listen to me bitching about my students, that’s something.  When you cook me take-out, that’s something.  This.  This is something.  You in the stands embarrassing me at football games or in the bars when you try to sing, that’s really something.  I love you, ya dumb-ass.”  He can see Dean gearing up to argue, and stops that shit by covering Dean’s mouth.  “No.  No ‘buts.’  Stop that.  You drive me nuts, but I love you.  All of you.  Just nod your head that, yes, Roman is right.  Roman knows best.”

The corners of Dean’s eyes crinkle when he nods.

Roman yanks his hand away when he feels a wet tongue lick his palm.  “Jackass.”

“You love me and you know it,” Dean says, and he’s smiling the good smile.  “For the record though?  Same here.  I couldn’t sleep ‘cuz I love you so fuckin’ much, and I was so sure I wrecked it.  You’re somethin’ too, y’know, Rome.  Now enough with sap.  Let’s watch shit blow up.  Although I'm polly gonna fall asleep here.”  Right on cue, he yawns.  “Lemme nap a while, and maybe we can fool around later?”

“Sounds good to me.”  A thought pops into Roman’s head just then, though, and he shifts with it.  “Dean?”

Dean looks up.  “Hmm?”

“Maybe we should have a moving day soon.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asks carefully.

“I mean,” Roman says, his heart bumping in his chest like bass cranked up as high as it can go, “what if we found an apartment that’s halfway between your work and mine, and we lived there together?  We could.  Move in.  Together.”

“Um.”  Dean sits up, eyebrows pulled together.  “So we’re clear, you’re saying you want to actually _move in_ together, and not go _to_ a movie together, right?  Like find a place and we’re there at the same time after work?  Not go to a theater.”

“Right,” Roman nods.  “Apartment.  Together.  Not a theater.  I’m down for fighting you for the covers every night.  I’ll even put up with your kicking.”

“It’s only fair,” Dean says, something that looks like a smile tugging up the corners of his mouth.  “I’d have to put up with your fucking buzzsawin’ at night, so…”

“I do _not_ snore,” Roman says, indignant.

“One of these days I’m gonna figure out how to record shit on my phone,” Dean says, “and then I’m gonna prove it.”

Roman laughs so hard he almost falls off the couch.

Dean punches him.  “Shut up, asshole.  I’ll figure it out.  And the day I do?  You’re gonna be my naked slave for a day.”

“I am _not_ gonna be your slave for a day,” Roman protests.

“My _naked_ slave,” Dean insists, laying back down.  “Oh, yes, you will.  And, yeah, if you wanna have a moving day, let’s do it.  I’m tired of not comin’ home to your ugly face every night.”

“Love you, too, jackass,” Roman snorts, thumping his dipshit boyfriend’s forehead.  “Now shut up and go to sleep.  I’m gonna be waitin when you wake up.”

And he’s happy again as Dean falls asleep.

_Moving day_ , he thinks fondly.  _Dumb-ass_.

[ _End_ ]


	5. Lucky Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was for ageofambreigns on Tumblr. It’s, like, tooth-rottingly sweet. Fair warning.
> 
> Prompt: Person A knowing that Person B does cute things only when A is asleep (plays with their hair, gives forehead kisses, tracing their lips, gentle snuggling, etc). One day Person A pretends to be asleep, but ends up being unable to hold back a smile as Person B begins displaying their rare affection. (Ambreigns ofc and would like for Dean to be person B)

**V. The Lucky Ones**

The first time it happens (that Roman’s aware of), they’re both pretty drunk.

Dean had won, and then been cheated out of, the WWE World Heavyweight Championship, thanks to a terrible call by the ref.  Seth was still technically champion, but that’d been such bullshit that Roman hadn’t been able to stand for it.

He’d rushed the ring and had helped Dean take the belt anyway.

And afterward, after they’d hauled ass out of the arena, the belt still firmly in Dean’s hand, they’d made their way to a nearby bar, where Dean hadn’t had to make good on his promise to buy the beers.

The fans that followed them bought them, and the night had turned into one big party.

Once the party died down, Dean and Roman had staggered up to their room at the hotel, and had pawed sloppy orgasms out of each other, too impatient and too wound up to bother with anything but get me off now.

It was afterward, later, when it happened.

They almost never fell asleep curled up together; Roman found it uncomfortably warm, having someone that close to him, and Dean was a pretty restless sleeper, and it was painful, getting elbowed or kneed in the middle of the night.  Even when they did fall asleep close together, they’d invariably be on their own sides of the bed by the morning.

But that night, Roman’d swam awake, groggy and still pretty drunk, when he’d felt a touch on the back of his shoulder.

Took it happening a couple more times before his bleary brain registered it was kisses.

Dean was kissing the back of his shoulder, soft, and mumbling something Roman had to strain to hear in between each: “Yer fuckin’ a-amazin’, Rome.  I love you so fuckin’ much.  ‘M so fuckin’ lucky.”

Roman meant to say something back, but sleep grabbed him again before he could figure out how to say words.

The next morning, Dean woke up so hangover-cranky that Roman decided he’d either dreamed the whole kissing-the-shoulder incident or it was just a product of the booze.

Because Dean is a lot of things - fun, wild, kind of hilarious, loyal, a pain in the ass, moody - but Mr. Warm and Fuzzy he ain’t.

In fact, there are a lot of days where Dean bears a striking resemblance to Grumpy Cat, both in his mood and by the looks on his face.

Not that Roman has or will ever actually say that.

He values his testicles far too much.

Except these things keep happening.

Apparently, he’s in love with a dude who likes to get affectionate in the middle of the night.

Deep a sleeper as he is, Roman doesn’t often wake up, but over the next few months, he swims awake with the feeling of fingers in his hair, lightly massaging his scalp.  Or a stubbly kiss brushing across his forehead.  Or a light touch along the lines of his tattoo.  Or, once or twice, Dean curled up tight beside him, practically cuddling him.

Most times he can hear Dean mumbling those, ‘I love yous’ and other things he has trouble saying when they’re both awake.

It’s as exasperating as it is charming.

Which is Dean in a nutshell.

Roman doesn’t mention it to Dean at all; at the best of times, Dean’s about as approachable as a cactus where his feelings are concerned, and Roman knows saying anything about it would probably just make things awkward.

Or worse, Dean might stop doing it.

It’s just another one of those things that make Dean who he is, Roman guesses.

Once, he wakes up with Dean giving him a light scalp massage and a full-on monologue:

“-times I gotta pinch myself ‘cuz I ain’t sure I’m awake.  ‘M used to shit like what Seth did to us.  People turnin’ out to be shit.  You never did.  Never were.  Like, you’re still here, with me, and it’s like - fuck, dude, that’s so weird to me.  You just let me be me.  That fucking blows my mind, and you don’t even know.  But it’s - I mean, it just goes to show how, like, special and shit you are.   You’re fuckin’ awesome, Rome.  You put up with a lot, and I appreciate the shit outta that…”

Warmed all the way through, Roman holds still, keeps his eyes closed and his breathing even as Dean keeps talking away.

He eventually drifts back off to sleep, peaceful and content, and when he wakes up again, he finds Dean’s in his usual spot on the other side of the bed, still out like a light.

On his way to go grab them some breakfast, Roman bends down and kisses Dean’s temple.  “Love you, too, weirdo.”

When he makes it back upstairs, a stack of plates and coffees balanced precariously in his hands, Dean’s awake, but still in bed, all rumpled and groggy under the covers, blinking a little stupidly at the TV.

“Caffeine,” Roman says, brandishing the coffee.

In the morning, Dean’s a one grunt for yes, two grunts for no kinda guy, so it’s not a surprise all he does is hold out a hand and wiggle his fingers.  

_Gimmie._

Roman, smiling, joins him on the bed with breakfast.

They eat in silence for a bit while SportsCenter plays in the background, Dean gradually perking up as he works on his coffee and scrambled eggs.

Once Roman judges Dean awake enough, he glances over and says, casually, “Was it just my imagination, or were you talking in the middle of the night?”

Dean’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth, a bit of egg plopping back onto the plate in his lap.  “Huh?”

“I thought heard you talking,” Roman says.

“Uh.”  Dean takes a huge bite of his food and mutters through it, “Mussa been sleep-talk.”

“Sleep-talk, right,” Roman says, trying not to sound disappointed.  “At least it was nice sleep-talk.”

“Was it.”  Dean’s attention stays on the TV.  “Hey, so what do you think about taking on the Swamp Monsters at SummerSlam?  Me and you.  I can never get enough of my knuckles on Bray Wyatt’s face.”

As much as he wants to keep pushing, Roman doesn’t.  He knows better.

SummerSlam is a bad night.  

They beat the Wyatts, but the crowd is the kind of ugly that takes all the thrill out of the victory, booing and chanting obnoxious crap that Roman can’t get out of his head.  Drinking that night is more about trying not to think about it than it is the celebration it should be.

He tries not to let it show, but Dean’s not stupid.

They leave the bar early and head back to their hotel at Dean’s insistence, and as soon they’re there, Dean says, “Just go bed and sleep it off, Rome.  Fuck ‘em anyway, right?  We had a good night.  Get some sleep, and let’s hit the ground running tomorrow.”

As he undresses for bed, Roman feels vaguely guilty: usually they cap off a good night with a romp between the sheets, and Dean was probably expecting that tonight, but Roman’s tired and grouchy and fed up with ungrateful idiots.

And he expects to stay awake stewing, but sleep grabs him almost as soon as Dean kills the lamp and climbs into bed himself.

He swims awake some time later, though, to the sensation of fingertips skimming one of his biceps, and the unsurprising sound of Dean’s rambling mumble a low drone beside him.

“-’em, okay?  ‘Cuz you were amazing out there.  You always are.  I fuckin’ love watching you.  Those fuckers booin’ are just dumb.  And I know you, and I know you’re gonna make ‘em eat their words.  You’re such a fuckin’ beast out there.  So screw ‘em.  It’s like what we said when we walked into the company, right?  Screw ‘em.  ‘Cuz you know you got people out there who do give a shit and do pull for you.  I do.  I always do.  And you’re good enough that you’ll get there.  You will.  And you’ll get to say, ‘Yeah, all you dudes who used to boo me, you wanna climb on my jock now?  Kiss my ass.’”

And that’s the point Roman loses the battle against his smile.  He snorts, too.

Dean immediately falls silent, his hand withdrawing.

Roman opens his eyes.

There’s a little night light near the bathroom door, and it chases the dark back just enough that when Roman turns his head he sees Dean’s propped up on one elbow watching him, wary.

“‘S gonna be a good day when I can say that,” Roman says through a yawn.  “Fake-ass wannabes.”  He frees a clumsy hand from under the sheets and lets it fall on Dean’s thigh, squeezes.  “Could tell me all that during the day, though.  When I’m awake.  Not that I mind, but you should be sleeping.”

He feels Dean relax beside him, shift a little closer.  “I know, but I just wanted to get all that outta my head before I fell asleep.  I know it’s weird.  But I heard once if you, like, talk to someone when they’re asleep what you say sinks deeper.  Not consciously, but on a subconscious level.”

Roman chuckles.  “Or maybe you’re just a closet mushball and don’t wanna admit it.”

“Am not,” Dean grumbles, but he nuzzles in even closer, his cheek on Roman’s chest and his arm across Roman’s stomach.  “Shut up.”

“All right, all right, mushball.”  Roman wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulders.  It’s already a little too warm, but he decides, for tonight, he’ll deal.  “Get some sleep.”

“You don’t think it’s weird?” Dean asks, yawning himself.  “It’s not the first time I’ve, y’know, talked to you when you were asleep.  Or touched you and stuff.  Not touched you in a, like, creepy way.  Just like I was now."

“Of course I think it’s weird,” Roman says, smiling a little to take the sting out of the words.  “It’s weird as hell.  But it’s you, and I love that about you as much as I love you, so it’s fine.  All I’m saying is you can say it when I’m awake sometimes, too.  Trust me, babe, I love hearing about how great you think I am.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean mutters.  “I am never talking to you again.”

“You think I’m amazing,” Roman teases him.

“Never talking to you again.”

“You think I’m a beast.”

“I hate you.”  A drowsy mumble.  Dean sounds like he’s on his way out.  “A lot.”

“You love me,” Roman says.

“…nuh-uh.”

“Do too.”

“Hmmm.”

Dean’s breathing evens out after just a couple more minutes.  Roman’s less tired, so he stays awake, smiling up at the ceiling.

Once he’s sure Dean’s asleep, he carefully lifts his hand away from Dean’s shoulders and gently cards his fingers through Dean’s hair.

He does feel better, is the thing, the memory of today’s shitty match eradicated by what Dean had been saying.  It’s true: he’ll prove them wrong, and he’ll be the guy someday.  And he does have people around him who don’t think he’s overrated or bad at everything - people who care.

Like the fans that make cool signs for him anyway.  Like his friends.  Like his family.

LIke Dean.

And as sleep beings to carry Roman back away, he looks down at the top of Dean’s head and says, quietly, “I think we’re both the lucky ones here, mushball.  Love your weirdo ass.”

Dean shifts a little, sighing.

Roman closes his eyes and follows him to sleep.

[ _End_ ]


	6. My Boooo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt here was "coming out." I apologize for the title. It's fucking terrible. Heh.

**VI. My Boooo**

It’s not that Roman doesn’t want to come out.

He’s just afraid to.

At twenty, he’s a star football player at Georgia Tech, a big defensive tackle with ambitions of becoming an NFL star in a year.

While he’s pretty sure none of his teammates would really care that he’s gay, it’s hard to say that for sure.  Locker rooms are weird places, and sometimes things that don’t seem like they should be a huge deal get blown way out of proportion.  Guys under pressure the way a football team is under pressure can react in ways that they wouldn’t under regular circumstances.

Not that he’d even make a big deal about it.

All he’d maybe do is tell a couple of his closest buddies on the team, so when they all go out for drinks with their girlfriends, it won’t weird them out if he ever brought a guy with him.

He’s not dating anyone, but hypothetically, anything is possible.

Even his best friend Dean Ambrose doesn’t know.

And that’s a whole other can of worms he’s not sure he wants to open yet.

Roman’s first roommate here at college had been a kid named Seth Rollins.  Brilliant dude.  Ambitious.  Driven.  Undergrad law student who happened to be double majoring in political science.  Also a CrossFit junkie.

So it came as kind of a shock when Roman met Seth’s best friend.

Dean Ambrose was basically Seth’s polar opposite, a dude so laid back he was practically in a coma.  At the time, he hadn’t even declared a major, instead apparently content to loaf his way through the _everybody’s gotta take ‘em_ prerequisite courses while he “finds something that really speaks to me, man.”   Hell of a sense of humor on him, though, and a troublemaker streak a mile wide.

The kind of guy who’d taped long sheets of bubble wrap to the floors in the dorm hallways.

The kind of guy who’d organize a game of human bowling in the hallways that involves one person on a skateboard getting pushed toward ten stacked garbage bins.

The kind of guy who never seems to get invited to any parties, but always finds a way to show up anyway - and generally has a good time doing it.

Usually because he’s pissing somebody off.

And embarrassing Roman, who, somehow, almost always manages to get dragged into the middle of it.

He’s really, _really_ bad at saying no.

Dean has a way of pissing people off so much they want to punch him and being so damn charming they can’t help but throw their hands up and just go with it.

That’s Dean.

Even after Seth moves to a different dorm over the winter break, Dean still finds his way into Roman’s room, the two of them falling into an easy - if unlikely - friendship.

The jock and the slacker.

* * *

Like most of the football players on campus, Roman’s a pretty popular dude.  When he’s not busy with practice or games, it seems like there’s always somebody from the team who wants him to go party or hang out.  Or work out.  Once in a great while somebody will mention the dreaded ‘study session,’ too.  

No shortage of amazing ladies who aren’t shy about asking for his number.

That’s awkward.

For a while, ‘I have a girl in another school’ worked as an excuse, but there was only so long he could coast on that same picture of himself with his friend Sasha - especially since they’d lost touch.  Eventually, he’d settled on two excuses: ‘I’m not into one-night hook-ups,’ and ‘I’m not looking to date right now.’  It still gets him looks from people sometimes, and once in a while, one of the guys on the team will hassle him, but for the most part people are too busy with their own shit to worry much about it.

There’s nothing to report about his sex life, anyway; it’s basically been basically nonexistent since he left high school.  He’s just been too afraid of getting caught to actually try anything with anybody.

Which sucks.

What doesn’t is that Dean never bothers him about it.

There is a reason he considers Dean his best friend.

They’ll go to parties, he and Dean will, and sometimes Dean will wander off to go flirt with someone, but he never leaves Roman alone for long.  Usually, he’ll just get a phone number (or five.  For someone who seems like such an awkward dork most of the time, Dean is buttery-smooth with his flirting game), and then he’ll be back to ramble at Roman about whatever subject has caught his attention this week.

(That can be anything, literally, from Bigfoot to Chupacabra to weird images deep-space telescopes have caught to whatever movie he’d watched to a book he’d read or what prank he’s feeling up to pulling next.  He will literally talk Roman’s ear off about anything and everything, if he’s in the right mood.)

Honestly, it’s Roman’s favorite thing about it: how he seems like such a slacker, lounging wherever with his leather jacket hanging open, shaggy hair half-obscuring his eyes, and a beer bottle lazily pinched between his thumb and forefinger, when in reality, he’s a real bright dude with all kinds of weird, diverse interests.

He listens as well as he talks, too, just taking it in when Roman needs to vent about some team bullshit or a test he blew.  Or his parents.  Or even, once, Roman’s quiet sophomore-year admission he’s worried about what’ll happen if he doesn’t make it to the NFL.

“I don’t know what I’d do, man,” Roman says that night.

They’re up in his mess of a dorm room, Dean slouched in the chair with his bare feet up on Roman’s desk.  Roman’s stretched out on his stomach, facing the foot of his bet, his chin propped on his hand.  A dozen empty beer bottles have already been stuffed into the trash can.  Dean had long since discarded his jacket, too, leaving him his usual plain black tank top and jeans.

“That’s the thing, Rome,” he says, gaze tracking across the ceiling.  “People can be good at more than one thing.  Maybe they don’t love that second thing as much, and maybe it kills them they couldn’t make it the way they wanted to, but what if.  What if you realized you weren’t quite big enough, but you could use your experience to coach kids?  What if you taught them?  Or what if you realized you realized you like cooking so you decided to become a chef?  Or you liked fixing things so you learned how to be a carpenter or a mechanic?”

“What if I don’t?” Roman asks moodily.  “What if I don’t find anything else I like?”

“Rome.  Buddy,” Dean says, shaking his head.  “You’re wrecking my vibe here, brotha.  I’m trying to tell you you’re gonna land on your feet no matter what.  You got something, dude.  It. I know you, and I know you ain’t a fuckin’ quitter.  If one thing don’t work, you’re gonna pick yourself up and you’re gonna keep pushing through.  Like, seriously, if you let some pissy little shit running back get by you once, do you quit and let him by the next time?”

“Course not,” Roman grunts.

“Course you don’t. You pick yourself up, and you keep that little bastard in your sights so you can drill his ass into the turf next play, right?  Right.  Because you don’t quit.  If shit doesn’t work for you, you’ll keep tryin’.  That’s you, dude.  But I bet you’ll make it.  You’re too fucking good not to.”

These aren’t things Dean says often, so hearing them warms Roman all the way through.  He smiles over at his friend.  “Thanks, man.”

“What’s with the doubts, anyway?”

“Just in my head about it, I guess.”

Dean gets up off the chair and hunkers down right in front of where Roman’s sprawled out.  They’re almost close enough to kiss.  “I know what goes,” he says, hand gripping the edge of the mattress.  “Just don’t let ‘em keep you from lovin’ what you’re doin’.  You know what I’m sayin?”

This close, his eyes are very blue.  Roman’s throat goes dry.  For not damn good reason, it occurs to him it’d be about the easiest thing in the world to close the gap between them right now.  To go in for that kiss.  It surprises him how okay he is with the idea.

How much he wants to just get it out in the open and go for it.

Dean doesn’t move.  Actually seems to be waiting for something.

An answer, or…

_Or._

But that or scares the shit out Roman, too, so much he sits up and smiles a stilted, awkward smile.  He’s straight, he reminds himself for the first of what’s going to be about a thousand times over the next six months.  It’s probably just the beer, anyway.

“Yeah,” he says quickly.  “Yeah, I get it.  Thanks, bro.  That’s - uh, that helps.”

He’s not sure he imagines the look of disappointment on Dean’s face or if it’s actually there, but he busies himself gulping down the rest of his beer.

* * *

And like a cliche, Roman Reigns falls in love with his best friend.

He fights it tooth and nail - tells himself it’s not jealousy when he watches Dean kiss another guy on a drunken dare, or when Dean's off hitting on ladies at the bar; tells himself that rush of warmth whenever they’re hanging out together is the same as it always was; that he doesn’t smile or laugh any more than he used to at Dean’s terrible jokes; that he doesn’t think about Dean any more or less often than he used to.

One night late sophomore year, he lets Dean talk him into going on a late-night campus ghost hunt with half a dozen other people.  They don’t find any ghosts, but somehow they end up alone together on the English building’s roof  at dawn, and there Roman learns what Dean looks like painted in early morning colors.

(He wants to punch himself in the face - repeatedly - for even thinking about sneaking a picture while Dean’s rambling away about some other place he wants to go ghost hunting.  That’s, like, sappy movie levels of lame.)

They don’t see each other that summer, but they text and talk on the phone at least a couple times a week.

More than one night, Roman falls asleep to the sound of Dean talking.

But Roman never comes out.

He wants to, but a different kind of fear keeps him quiet.

_Don’t want to lose my friend._

Between Roman’s sophomore and junior years, Dean finally settles on English as a major, with a focus on writing.

He’s good at it.

They end up getting an apartment off-campus with Seth and Seth’s friend Sami for junior year, but Roman’s football schedule keeps him busy and Dean takes a part time job at an auto parts store, so they don’t see quite as much of each other as Roman wants to.

But Dean always comes to Roman’s games.  It’s easy to pick him out, even in a big stadium: he’s the one lone black leather jacket in a sea of white and gold tee shirts.   Puts a smile on Roman’s face every damn time, and makes him play that much better.

It’s pathetic.

He feels like a damn puppy wagging his tail sometimes.

And with Dean being more touchy-feely lately, it’s even worse.  He’s never been a very affectionate dude, but suddenly he’s clapping Roman’s shoulder, hooking an arm around him, deliberately bumping him when they walk together.  Smiling a lot.

When they go to parties, he tends to stay in whatever corner he and Roman claim instead of roaming off to flirt with the first person who catches his eye.

Usually after a few beers, he’ll loosen up to the point where he’ll start nudging Roman’s leg with his toe and grinning, or he’ll wind up draping his arm (and half of himself, practically) over Roman’s shoulders and muttering, “You know you’re the fucking man, right?” in Roman’s ear in a voice that just makes Roman shudder, or he’ll just sit real close and talk they’re both warm and half-asleep.

Often during these talks, Roman finds himself on the verge of blurting out, ‘I’m gay.’

But that fear - _don’t want to lose my friend_ \- stays with him, huge and overshadowing everything.

It’s fun shooting the breeze and joking around with his football teammates, but there’s something about this - the closeness - that just does it for him.

One night, Dean comes into Roman’s room with a big grin on his face and two fake IDs in hand.

Roman takes his gingerly, the way he might take a bomb he’s not sure is live or not.  Looks at it.  Frowns.  “Where did you get this picture of me?”

It’s kind of a terrible picture.  His eyelids are half closed.  He looks completely stoned.

“Took it when you weren’t looking?  I dunno.”  Dean’s bouncing on his toes.  He does that when he’s excited.  “Look, don’t ask.  They’re good IDs.  And you don’t even have to pay for yours.  Just come with me tonight, okay?”

Roman’s whipped.

They’re not even dating, and he’s just pathetically whipped.

Dean’s had worse ideas, is the thing, and he figures they’ll probably just go to a bar and drink for a while.  Won’t be any big deal, probably.

Except the place Dean drives him to is this bar off campus called 802.

Everybody knows 802.

Most people just call it “the gay bar,” but some jackasses have dubbed it B ‘n B - Beer ‘n Buttsex.  A lot of wild stories float around about this place, like there’s rooms in the back where guys can get their freak on.  Stories about dudes blowing each other in the bathrooms.  Other stories about all-bar orgies.  Even some S & M - type stuff.

Probably bullshit, but Roman’s never been all that keen to find out.

And now he looks at Dean from the passenger seat of this beat-up little car.  “What are we doing here?”

“Somethin’ to do,” Dean says.  He doesn’t look at Roman once.  “Change of pace?  I always wanted to see what this place was like.  If it was as weird and wild as everybody said it was.”

“It’s a gay bar,” Roman says.

“I know,” Dean says.

“People from school might be here.”    Roman shakes his head.  “I can’t be seen in a gay bar, Dean.”

Dean finally looks over.  “Who’d care?  I wouldn’t.  If you were into dudes, I wouldn’t care at all.  I’m - I mean, I’m kinda bi myself.  That’s why I thought…”  He clears his throat.  “It doesn’t matter.”

Roman narrows his eyes.  “What do you mean ‘kinda bi’?”

“I mean, I’ve gone both ways,” Dean shrugs.  “Dicks and chicks.”

“I’ve never seen you flirt with a guy before,” Roman says.  His palms are sweating like crazy.

“Then you’re not paying attention,” Dean says quietly.  “Because I have been.  I’ve been flirting with a guy for months.  You’ve been there.  I guess you just haven’t noticed.  Why don’t you wanna be seen here?”

“I’m on the football team, Dean,” Roman says.  Gruff.  Flat  “I don’t want things to get weird with the guys in the locker room.  It might if it got out I was here.  Who have you been flirting with?   _When?_ ”

_What am I missing?_

He racks his brain to try to come up with a guy - any guy - he’s seen Dean flirt with over the past few months.  That’s something he’s pretty sure he’d notice.  Dean is many things, but a subtle flirter he is not.

“Why would it get weird?” Dean asks instead.  “Are they that homophobic?  You can’t even be seen in a gay bar even if you’re just there to, like, grab a drink with your best friend?  Or maybe it was a dare?  You just wanted to see what it was like?  You don’t actually have to, like, be gay to go here.  But even if you were gay, why would they care?  You’re fucking amazing on the field.  ‘S all that matters.”

“It’s all that should matter,” Roman says, “but some guys get weird about dudes even being seen at a place like this - gay or not.  You can come here on your own sometime if you really wanna know what it’s like, but count me out.  So either we gotta go somewhere else or we can hang back at the apartment.”

Dean starts the car.  “Okay.  Sorry.  Guess this was a dumb idea.”

“It’s not the best one you’ve had,” Roman says.  “Look, we’ve got beers back at our place, so let’s just head back there.  Who’ve you been flirting with?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean says as he pulls the car out of the parking lot.  “Just forget it.”

“No,” Roman insists.  “Who’s the-” _asshole who isn’t me_ “-lucky guy?”

“Never mind, I said,” Dean mutters.

Roman leans back in his seat, tries to shake off the ugly feeling in his chest.  “So you’ve messed around with guys before, then?”

“A few times, yeah.”

The next thing out of Roman’s mouth _should_ have been something along the lines of ‘hey, so have I.’   _Should_.  It’s the perfect opening.  Clearly Dean’s okay with it, if he’s actually done it himself, so there’s probably zero chance this will actually impact their friendship.

What he actually says is, “Anyone recently?”

Still hung up on who Dean’s been flirting with.

That’s gonna bother him for a while.

“Like a year ago?” Dean says, fidgeting.  “I don’t know.  It’s been a while.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, Dean,” Roman says like the complete hypocrite he is.

“You never talk about your sex life, either,” Dean points out, eyes never leaving the road.  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore, anyway.  It’s weird.  Tell me about your biology test.  How’d you do?”

They end up back at their apartment, and things are weird.  Dean’s all closed-off and withdrawn where he’d been energetic and hyper earlier.  And Roman can’t get that _I’ve been flirting with a guy for months_ thing out of his head, so like a complete dumb-ass he doesn’t ever get around to telling Dean he’s gay, too.

He means to, though.

He will.

* * *

Except he doesn’t.  

He gets really busy middle of football season with two practices a day; on top of that, he has one test on top of the other in every single class. Plus a couple papers.  Dean’s not around much himself, off causing trouble or monster hunting  or whatever he Dean-things he does when Roman’s not around to try to rein him in.

(There might be an incident with the school pool turning purple, but Dean never admits it - not even to Roman - and nobody’s ever caught for it.)

A couple weeks go by where the only time they see each other is when one of them is headed out the door.

Roman ends up hanging out more with his teammates, mostly because his teammates are feeling all amped up because they’re undefeated so far this season.  Definitely looking like they’re headed for one of the big Bowl games this year.  It’s exciting as hell, and Roman gets caught in the rush of training and practice.

There are more parties.

He has to deal with dodging interested looks and people trying to flirt with him again.

It’d been a lot nicer when Dean was around because that didn’t happen anywhere near as often.

Who Dean had been flirting with is a question never far from Roman’s mind though - especially since Dean’s gone all the time.  Roman finds himself awake some nights when he’s the only one in the apartment, wondering if there’s some asshole out there that Dean’s draping his arm around now, if Dean’s talking into someone’s ear the way he’d talked into Roman’s all those times.

If there was someone he was smiling around the same way he’s always smiled around Roman.

Why the hell didn’t he notice Dean flirting with anyone?

The few times he and Dean do manage to hang out together, it’s not the same.

Dean’s all closed off and quiet now.  Doesn’t joke with him as much.  He still listens, but doesn’t seem to have as much to say as he used to.

For a while, anyway.

Gradually, as the weeks spin off toward mid-term and beyond, things settle back into a groove.

There’s still some distance between them, with Dean reverting back to his earlier habits of flirting with the first person who catches his eye at parties (Roman watches that with gritted teeth), and keeping space between them so they don’t touch.  He doesn’t sit close anymore, doesn’t drop an arm over Roman’s shoulders, and doesn’t get near him to talk anymore.

He doesn’t flirt with any guys, as far as Roman can see, and that’s a relief,

And still, Roman doesn’t come out.

Tells himself things are good the way they are, that he’s not ready, and that someday he will.

_Maybe._

* * *

As it gets near Halloween, Dean brings Roman a list of a bunch of places that are supposedly heavy with ghost activity and tells him they’re going to all. of. them.

 _Tells_ him - doesn’t ask.

Of course Roman says yes.

He’s still whipped.

Which is how he finds himself with Dean and a couple other people - including a grumbling Sami - making their way through some long-abandoned hospital.

Two nights before Halloween, though, because Dean figures some idiots will probably try to hide out in this place on Halloween night and fuck with them.

It’s a creepy old place, cold and stale.  Most of the rooms have been gutted, but there’s still some old surgical tables and things scattered around here and there.  Debris from where some of the walls have crumbled.  They can’t even make it to the third floor because the stairs have crumbled.

Every so often there the building creaks and groans in a way that makes the little hairs on the back of Roman’s neck prickle.

“Just settling,” Dean says, but he stands just a little closer to Roman.  Which only stands to reason, Dean had explained once: Roman at his full football weight is imposing as hell.  Ghosts with bad intentions would totally think twice about fucking with him.

_Totally._

Roman had rolled his eyes so hard he’d nearly given himself a headache.  He’d also smiled about it later so much it made his cheeks hurt.

At some point during their trek through all the empty, crumbling rooms, he and Dean get separated from the others, who take the equipment - the various meters and thermometers they use to hunt for paranormal phenomena - to go check up on the second floor.  Roman sticks tight to Dean’s side, mostly because the floors in a couple spots are in bad shape.

Dean has a bad habit of getting way into looking at everything but where he’s walking.

So naturally, when they come to an empty room where there’s a small hole in the floor, that’s the the first place Dean tries to stick his foot.  He’s so busy taking in what’s either a rust stain or really old blood on one wall - and going on and on about some old historical paper that talked about weird experiments - that he’s not paying attention to where he’s walking.

Roman, without thinking, reaches out and snags his hand, tugging on it.  “Watch the floor.  There’s a hole.”

“Huh?” Dean jerks to a stop.  “Oh.  Shit.  Thanks.  Didn’t even see that.  Anyway, so apparently there were like three of these rooms, and they were used to…”

He rambles right on, half to himself, and Roman lets it all wash over him.

They’re still holding hands.

In fact, Dean kind of links his fingers through Roman’s and squeezes lightly.  Roman feels like a dorky fourteen-year-old all over again after that.  Here he is, standing in this groaning old hospital, and all he can think about - grin to himself about in the dark -  is how _they’re holding hands_.

Dean's is rough and warm, a little sweaty, but still comfortable.  It fits nice in Roman's big paw.

And neither of them seem keen to let go.  Dean drags Roman around the room that way, and Roman doesn't protest it a bit.

Mr. Big-and-Tough football player right here, letting his exasperating best friend lead him around like a puppy on a leash.

He has almost a hundred pounds on Dean  right now.

This shouldn’t even be _possible_.

“…and supposedly they had these really big metal jaws that they had for…”

Roman’s eyes follow the line of his flashlight to another hole on the floor; he guides Dean around it so smoothly he doubts Dean even notices this one.

Or maybe he does, because he pauses in his ‘just-thinking-out-loud’ thing to smile.

All of a sudden, Roman’s heart is in his throat.

Strange as it is, it just feels like the right time.

He tugs Dean to a stop just before he can walk out of the room, the two of them just inside the doorway.  “Hey, uh, Dean?”

Dean shines his flashlight somewhere around the middle of Roman’s chest.  There’s just enough light to show raised eyebrows and a curious expression.  “What’s up?”

Roman shifts, clears his throat.  His hand feels cold, even with Dean’s much warmer one holding it.  “I know this isn’t the best place for this, but there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while.”

“What’s that?”

“That I’m gay.”  He takes a breath.  “I’m gay.  That.  Is what I wanted to tell you.”

There’s a pause that goes on a little longer than Roman expects.  Dean’s mouth works a couple times before he chuckles and says, "We’re in the middle of a fucking haunted hospital, and _now_ you come out to me?  Is this fucking _us_ or what?”

Roman ducks his head, laughs himself.  “It’s us, dude.”

“I guess.”  Dean squeezes Roman’s hand again.  Around them, the building creaks and groans.  “For what it’s worth, I kinda guessed.  When I took you to 802, I was tryin’ to get you to, y’know, tell me.  Which was kind of a dick move, but I just wanted you to know it was okay.  You could tell me when you were ready.  Like, I’m cool with it.  Really cool with it.”

“You understand why I didn’t want to go there, though, right?  The team.  It’s…”

“I get it,” Dean says.  “ I mean, I don’t.  I don’t think who you fuck should mean shit, but you know how it is better ‘n I do.  You know I ain’t gonna tell.”

“Yeah.”  Roman trails his flashlight along the wall beside him.  “Not sure I’ll ever be ready to tell them.  The team.  It’s - they’re not homophobes, but I don’t want things to get weird in the locker room.  I don’t want to become a story.  I just wanna play football.  Sucks it even matters.”

“I hear ya,” Dean says.  “I don’t how I’d feel about, like, having to keep a secret like that.  Or, y’know, if you started dating someone, you’d have to keep them a secret.  Not that I’d, like, flaunt it anyway ‘cuz it’s nobody’s fucking business, but you couldn’t even, like, really go out together, could you?”

“You could,” Roman says.  “You could still go to parties together and things like that.  You’d just have to be careful.  You could go out on dates and things - just not to team stuff.  But if you’re not somebody who really cares about that, it’s not that big a deal.  I don’t hang with anybody from the team all that much anyway.  They’re great guys, but I’m around them all the time.  It’s nice to have friends outside of them.”

“That’s true,” Dean says.  “Guess if you wanted to go out together, you could go to places off campus.  Not like 802, but other places.  Lots of other bars in the city.”

“Rght,” Roman says.  Then, because it feels like the time for this, too: “So you ever gonna tell me who you were flirting with?”

Dean snorts.  “You seriously never figured that out?  You were literally the only guy I was around most of the time when we hung out.  I mean, was I wrong?  I was into you.  Were you not…?”

… _oh._   Roman feels like biggest idiot.

 _You just didn’t notice._ Dean had literally told him that night, and he’d missed it.  

Still:

“You _were_ into me?” Roman asks.  Nervous all over again.

“Am.”  With a smile, even.  “Present tense.”

“Are you?” 

“Are _you_?” Dean counters.

Roman tucks his flashlight under his armpit and awkwardly drags Dean to him by the front of his jacket.  This close, Dean smells like leather and spearmint.  They’ve smothered the light between them, so there’s a little bit of uncoordinated bumping that happens, and Roman gets a little whisker burnt, but eventually things line up all right.

It’s been a minute since he’s kissed anyone, so he has no idea how it goes, but he thinks he does already, managing to lick his way inside Dean’s mouth and to suck on Dean’s tongue a little, and - yeah.

They’re kissing in the middle of a haunted hospital.

_Of course they are._

“Guys?” Sami’s voice floats down from the end of the hallway.  Of course  “Hey, where are you?  We think we got something!”

Dean pulls back just long enough to call out, “We’ll be right there, Sami.”

“Damn.”  Roman presses on more kiss into the corner of Dean’s mouth.  “To be continued, huh?”

“Mm.”  Dean eases further away, but doesn’t loosen his grip on Roman’s hand just yet.  “Is this a thing, then?  Are we a thing?”

“We are,” Roman says.  He’s practically giddy at the prospect of peeling his scruffy friend’s tight shirts off and getting him all spread out on the bed.  “We’re definitely something.”

He doesn’t know how the hell it’ll work out in the real world, with football and his teammates or even his parents, but that’s something he’ll worry about later.

Right now, all that matters is Dean and this crumbling old building and the people waiting for them down the hall.

And Dean seems to get that because he gives Roman’s hand one last squeeze, points his flashlight out into the hallway, and says, “‘Course we are.  We’re fucking awesome.  Now, come on.  Let’s go find some ghosts.”

[ _End_ ]


	7. Camera Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a prompt from CBD on Tumblr. It's based on [this](https://www.periscope.tv/adamramzixxx/1YqKDDNnNEzKV?) kind of adorable periscope vid. Porn stars Roman and Dean streaming in the early morning. More tooth-rotting fluff. Enjoy.

**Camera Boys**

You couldn’t find two different porn stars out there: Dean the guy who’d worked his way up from amateur hardcore scenes and Roman from his well-produced and well-funded company scenes.  But they’d collided when Roman had wanted to dip his toes into something a little more edgy, and from there they’d spun it into a career that spanned everything from the sensual to the downright kinky.

They didn’t - and don’t - always work together.

The porn world is fickle, and the _it_ couple today loses flavor pretty fast if it’s overexposed.  Diminishing returns.  Dean’s the one who recognized that first, pointing out in the beginning that taking a less-is-more approach to their collaborations would mean the appetite for their work together would stay fairly constant.

He’s not wrong.

Eighteen months since their first collaboration, and not a day goes by when people aren’t asking Roman about when he and Dean will have a scene together again.  Everything they’ve done together has sold like crazy.  No doubt the next scene they'll do will, too.

In about three weeks, they’ll do an outdoorsey autumn shoot Roman’s positive will be huge.

Any scene where they’re wrestling in leaf piles and one of them gets tied to a tree is bound to be a success.

And, in truth, Roman’s really looking forward to it: Dean’s been off doing some work for a company in Philadelphia for the last few weeks, so they’ve been reduced to late-night (for Dean) phone sex that just makes Roman want the real thing all that much more.

They’ve been together for a year already, as hard as that is to believe.

In the industry, relationships rarely last.  People change partners with the same frequency as they do condoms.  One day a couple is together, and the next day they're not.  Most everyone sleeps around.  Just the way it goes: you get as intimate as you do in certain scenes with someone, and you start to feel like there could be something there.  Rarely ever is; most of the time, you’re over it once you’ve showered and dressed.

Jealousy is also a problem.  Seeing your partner getting that intimate with someone else - even though it’s just for the cameras - can be a hard pill to swallow.

That hasn’t been much of a problem for either Roman or Dean, though.  They’re pros.  By now, they both know how to turn it on for the cameras, and shut it off once they stop rolling.  Roman sometimes feels that affection for his other co-stars, but nowadays, he doesn't look at them twice any more than most of them look at _him_ twice.

It's an open secret he has a boyfriend.

Said boyfriend had dashed off to the restroom just a minute ago, leaving a newly-awakened Roman to grab his phone and Tweet out: _Periscope.  Fifteen minutes.  Featuring a special guest.  Come say hi._

He doesn’t tell Dean this.

Dean’s half-awake, groggy, messy-haired, and _gloriously_ naked when he pads back to bed.  He’s added some muscle back, bod filling out nicely over the last few months.

Roman’s filled out, too, although it’s not all muscle.  People seem to like the extra meat on him - his extra thickness, they call it - and Dean loves it, so Roman's doing his best no to be self-conscious about it.  There are still days when he wishes he had Dean's seeming inability to gain weight, but those days are growing fewer and further between.

And Dean just spoons right up to Roman’s back, drapes an arm right across Roman’s middle.  He presses a few warm, open-mouthed kisses into the back of Roman’s shoulder.  “G’mornin.”

“Morning,” Roman says, pulling Dean’s arm tighter around him.

Dean will tell everyone that he doesn’t cuddle.

Dean is full of shit.

It won't be long before the world will see that for itself.

And while Dean dozes, Roman checks his Tweet.  Already a couple dozen people have Retweeted him, most of them guessing correctly that it’s Dean.  Last week, Roman streamed from here with a couple friends, but the question most people asked was where the hell Dean was.

Most people in the industry are social media addicts, forever glued to their phones.  Dean hates that.  He's earned a rep for being Mr. anti-Social Media, and it's a badge he wears with pride.  Roman's not exactly someone who needs to tell everyone the details of his everyday life, either, but he's found that staying active on social media is an easy way to promote what he's doing.  It's good for sales.  Plus, the occasional Periscope stream helps give his fans a little peek into his personal life that he knows they appreciate.

Cultivating a following.

He's not quite like Dean, who just seems to attract people like a magnet with his strange charm and weird charisma.  He's charismatic and commanding in his own right, but there's something about Dean that just draws people in.  Those same people seem to find Roman intimidating.

Periscope streams let them see he's a normal dude.

Plus, streaming with Dean is a way to show him off.  To brag a little.  _Look what I got_.  Dean's more private about things like that, but he'll go along with it anyway for Roman's sake.  In a way, Roman thinks Dean kind of likes the chance to show Roman off. _All mine_.

They’re both kind of catches, the two of them, as different as they are.

It’s fun and it works, and Roman’s pretty sure he’s in love.  Close, anyway.  Not close enough to say it, but close enough he can feel it tugging at the edges of his mind when Dean's laughing like a careless idiot about something or when they're together like this.  This is good.  They’re already living together.  That’s a thing.  And part of that thing is him getting to prove to everyone just what a cuddler Dean actually is.

When it hits the right time, Roman quietly begins the stream and double-checks that the link has been Tweeted out.

It’s all good.

Rather than rush to start talking, though, he just lays where he is and looks into the camera for a bit.  His hair’s a little messy and he’s kind of puffy this morning, but he looks good enough.  Slowly, he lifts his phone to catch Dean’s sleeping face.

Roman holds the shot for a little while longer, long enough for their audience to grow - and it does, fast.

Pretty soon, the little chat bubbles start popping up: _Gorgeous!_ and _DEAN_! and _Roman you’re so hot omg!_ and  _You look sooo good together!_

“Good morning,” Roman says, simultaneously shifting his shoulder to wake Dean up. “Damn _,_ looks like we already got a crowd on our hands.”  A thousand.  Fifteen hundred.  Eighteen.  The numbers tick up fast.  Two thousand. _“_ Lots of ya this morning. How’s everyone doing?”

“Are you kidding me?” Dean groans.  “Already?  C’mon.  I look terrible.”

“You look fine,” Roman says, voice low and sleep-rough.  “So, hey, look who I found.  Fresh back from Philly.  Say good morning.”

Dean grumbles against Roman’s shoulder.  “Don’t wanna.”

“You better,” Roman says, chuckling.  “We got about three thousand people waitin’ to see those baby blues.  Come on now.  Don’t be grumpy.  Say hi.”

Another grumble, but Dean raises his head and blinks sleepily up at the phone.  “Morning.”

“Not only did I find him,” Roman says, grinning at the chat’s full-on _Dean! OMG Dean!  Hi Dean!_ freak-out, “but as you can see, he’s come back with a beard. Show everybody. What’s up with that?”

“Mmmm.”  Dean scrapes his bearded chin along Roman’s bicep.  “They wanted it for the shoot.  I liked it.  Somethin’ different.  ‘S nice, right?”

“What do we think?” Roman asks.  “Do we like it?”  He grins at the immediate and overwhelmingly positive reaction to it.  (His favorite is the eloquent, _BEEEEEEEARD!_ )  “Yeah, me too.  Looks real good on him.  Glad you’re back.  Missed you.”

“Oh yeah?”  Dean, looking a little more awake, peppers a few kisses on Roman’s shoulder.  “How much?”

“A lot.”  Roman glances around at him.  “You must’ve missed me, too, huh?  All the cuddling you’ve been doing since you got here…”

“I do _not_ cuddle,” Dean mutters.

“You’re cuddling me right now, babe,” Roman points out, returning his attention to the camera.  Dean totally is, too, all spooned up and holding Roman from behind.  “Real nice, I might add.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Not.”

“Are too.”

“Huh-uh.”

“Yes you are.”

“‘M not cuddling you,” Dean says petulantly.  He buries his face against the back of Roman’s shoulder again.  “I’m _cold_.  You’re warm.  Conserving body heat.  I’m being _practical_.  You’re supposed to get naked and huddle together real close like this.   _Huddle_ \- not cuddle.”

“Huddle.”  Roman chuckles when a couple of the comments catch his eye.  “They don’t believe you.  I don’t think I do, either.  We all know you’re cuddly in the morning.”

Dean sticks his tongue out at the phone, rolls on his back.  “No, I’m not.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Roman says, carefully turning over himself and scooting over to get both of them in the shot.  “You’re not getting away from me that easy.  Come on.  What’s bad about cuddling?  We both like it.  I know you do.  Stop being a stubborn jackass and tell these people you like it.”

“Enough with the cuddling,” Dean says, playfully pushing Roman’s arm.  “‘S it like outside today, anyway?  I want to go for a bike ride or something later.”

“Look for yourself, lazy butt.”  Roman pokes Dean’s chest.  “They think you’re cute when you cuddle me.”

“Shaddap,” Dean says.  He makes his way to his knees somehow - lots of grunting and mumbling under his breath - although Roman has to pull the camera up quickly to keep Dean’s ass out of the shot.  It’s a hell of a nice view.  Also something that would get them banned.  Again.  Oblivious as always, Dean peers through the blinds.  “Not a cloud out there.  Perfect.”

“Nice,” Roman says.  He mostly means Dean's ass, but it’s nice that it’s nice day out, too.

About that time, he glances at the comments again:

_LOOK AT THAT HUGE BOTTLE OF LUBE!  OMG._

_I spy lube._

_That lube tho._

_Lube on the table!_

He rolls his eyes.  It’s visible on the nightstand past Dean’s back.  “Dean, hide the damn lube.  They keep talking about it.  Put it in the drawer.”

“I mean, we’re just gonna put it to use again here in a bit, aren’t we?” Dean says.  Because he’s Dean and he has basically no shame.  “Who cares if they can see it?  They know what we’re doing here.”

“Put it away anyway,” Roman says, once again moving the camera to get Dean’s naked butt out of the shot.

_No don’t put it away._

_USE IT._

And emojis.  The eggplant, water, tongue, the single finger pointing at  the OK symbol.  

Lots of damn emojis.

These people have no shame, either, apparently.

“We’re not gonna use it now,” Roman says firmly, looking right into the camera.  “You wanna see us using it, hit the website.  I think they got a special deal going this week.  That’s what I heard.  Like buy three scenes, get one free or something.  Don’t quote me.  Maybe it’s ten percent off.  But I know they’re...oh.”  One of the chat comments catches his eye.  “It’s twenty percent off the monthly membership, or five scenes for the price of four.  And no,” he adds as Dean closes the nightstand’s drawer, “we’re not gettin’ paid for this.  I’m just sayin’ if you wanna see me and Dean gettin’ it on, it’s all out there on the web.”

Dean flops back down on the bed, rolls over onto his stomach and half-lays on Roman’s side, leg thrown over Roman’s.  “‘S primo content.  We don’t give that stuff away for free.  ‘Cept to each other.”

“That’s right.”  Roman shifts himself around so he’s lying on his stomach, too, the phone held comfortably on the pillow.  “There we go.  So what are we doing today, anyway?  Anything?  Or did you just wanna stay in bed all day?  Were you serious about that bike ride?”

Dean yawns, hmms, rests his chin in his hand.  “I mean, I _was_ gonna sleep a little longer, but now I guess you can give me a massage.  Then you can give me a blowjob.  Then you can make me breakfast in bed.  Then you can give me a bath.  Then you can take me on a bike ride.  Then you can take me out to go look for a new plant.  Mitch needs a new friend.  I think that’s fair.”

Roman snorts, nudges Dean’s shoulder.  “Your potted plant does _not_ need a friend.  He’s got us.”

“Yeah, and we’re not here all the time for him.”  Dean gives Roman The Eyes.  The puppy dog ones.  The ones that Roman should be immune to by now, but completely isn’t.  “Mitch needs a friend.  Your living room is lonely.”

Seems like every single person watching agrees.  Dozens of comments pour in:

_Get a plant!_

_OMG are you living together?_

_Yes get Mitch a friend!   Mitch + new plant <3_

“Y’all are terrible,” Roman mutters at them.  “Stop encouraging hi - shit.”  The puppy dog eyes catch him again.  “Okay.  All right, babe.  We’ll get Mitch a friend.  But I get to name it.”

“Mm.”  Dean wrinkles his nose.  “‘S fair.  Better be a good name, though.”

“You saying I can’t name things good?” Roman asks, mock outrage.

“You named your dick-”

“Hey!” Roman shoots a hand out to cover Dean’s mouth, somehow managing not to drop his phone in the process.  “No.  No.  I told you, we’re never gonna talk about that.  I was drunk and that doesn’t count.”

Dean’s eyes crinkle with the smile Roman can feel against his palm.

Oh, God, Roman’s in trouble.

“Dean, so help me God, if you say one word, I’ll tell them about the time you-”

Almost immediately Dean starts shaking his head no.

“All right, then,” Roman says, pulling his hand away, satisfied.  “Anyway, did you just volunteer me to be your servant today?  Is that what I just heard you do?  How come I gotta do all this stuff for you?”

“‘Cuz I had a long flight yesterday and you missed me.  You were gonna do all that anyway.”  He tips his head over to rest against Roman’s shoulder.  “The kinks in my spine have kinks.  And not the fun kind.  You got amazing hands, Rome, and you know it.  You love touchin’ me and feedin’ me, so it’s a win-win.  I’m just lettin’ you do all the things you wanna do.”

Roman shoots his phone a wry look.  “You believe the crap this guy pulls?  Rollin’ in here thinkin’ he’s gonna sweet-talk me like that.  Like he’s Mr. Smooth.  Damn.”

“It totally worked, didn’t it?”  Dean grins at the camera, dimples a little less visible for the beard, but still pretty obvious.  “Roman likes doin’ that kinda stuff.  Who’m I to say no?  I should get spoiled, right?  Tell him I should get spoiled.  I’ve been out doing all these scenes with dudes who aren’t Roman.  I haven’t been home for weeks.  Tell him I should get spoiled.”

And there it is: _home_.

The first time he can remember Dean saying it.

_Home._

Ignoring the chat - it’s moving too fast right now anyway - Roman looks over at his boyfriend.  “I’m glad you’re home.”

Seems to dawn on Dean what he’d said because the grin softens down into that easy smile, the one that’s just for them.  “Me too.  Missed ya.”  His fingers steal out and trace the lines of Roman’s tattoo.  “And you’re gonna spoil me.  I had to have sex on top of a train car, Roman.  A train car.  In November.  You know uncomfortable that was?  I mean, I guess technically the table thing I got worked over on was more uncomfortable, but cold metal in October?  Shrinkage city.  I’m amazed they could even see my dick on camera.  And we both know I got a big dick…”

While Dean runs on, nerves and adrenaline, Roman steals a peek at the phone.

_Kiss._

_KISS!_

_OMG u guys are adorbs.  Kiss!_

_Kiss kiss kiss._

He’s never been one to deny his audience.

It’s a little hard to manage with the camera in his hand, but he goes for it, anyway, leaning over to kiss the corner of Dean’s mouth.  The angle is terrible, but Dean gets the hint anyway and they manage a nice, but kind of awkward kiss, soft, no tongue.  A quick thing.  Roman’s not even sure he keeps the camera still.

But that’s okay.

Dean’s smiling anyway when they pull apart, and that’s really all Roman cares about.

They’re still in the shot, he discovers when he glances at his phone, and so many people are commenting that Roman can’t even keep up with what anyone’s saying, other than the occasional _SO CUTE!_ or something like that.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Roman says.  “Otherwise, I’d make _you_ take care of me, since I’ve been home here bored to damn death for the last few weeks.”

Dean eyes narrow.  “You were playing _Call of Duty_ in your underwear again, weren’t you?”

“I was wearing pants,” Roman protests.  “I had company.  I couldn’t exactly play - you know what?  Shut up, Dean.  I was not...  Other than the one time, I wasn’t playing in my underwear.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I _wasn’t_.”

“Was too.”

“Was not.”

“Too.”

“N - dammit, what I’m doin?”  Roman elbows Dean’s side.  “Makin’ me act like a damn kid.”

“Yeah, he blames me,” Dean says into the phone’s camera.  It’s going nuts with hearts and comments.  “You believe that shit?  He’ll pretend like he doesn’t, but he totally likes this.  ‘S why he likes me.”

“I don’t like acting like a kid,” Roman tells their audience rolling his eyes again.  They’re gonna get stuck like that one day.  “But I do like Dean.”

“‘Course you do,” Dean says.  “What’s not to like about me?”

“No, I...”  Roman glances over, frowns.  “We should tell them.  They’ve probably figured it out by now, anyway, but it’s time.  Don’t you think?”

“They probably do know, so...”  Dean shrugs.  Bites his lip.  “Why not?”

“So yeah,” Roman says, eyeing himself on the little screen, and his heart might or might not be thumping in his chest a little, “I guess most of you probably already figured this out, but Dean and me are dating.  Have been for almost a year.”

“The eighteenth, right?”  Dean’s voice is quiet, and a little rough.

“Right,” Roman says.  “Dean just moved in with me last month.”

“We’re filming somethin’ together in a few weeks, too,” Dean tells the camera.  “That _Woodsmen_ sequel you guys’ve been asking for?  That’s a thing that’s happening.  So, you know.  Get ready for more terrible wood jokes.  Also I might be riding Roman’s lumber or something.  Or maybe we’re gonna switch.  I know somebody’s getting tied up.  I dunno.  You’ll have to wait and see.  Gonna be weird filmin’ something with my...uh, my boyfriend here.”

Roman breaks out into the biggest, stupidest smile.  “Nah, it won’t be.  It’ll be fun.  Boyfriend.”

Dean’s forehead furrows.  “You like 'partner' better?”

“No, I like boyfriend,” Roman says.  “I was just trying it out myself.  It’s good.  I like it.”  It’s weird.  He huffs a little chuckle anyway.  “Chat’s going nuts.  I can’t even keep up.  Look at this.  That - what?  It went too fast.  ‘Aw.’  ‘I’m jealous.’  ‘Coupe of the year.’  Hey, how about that.  That’s nice.  They think we’re adorable.”

Dean grumbles something under his breath that sounds a lot like _stop that shit_.

Relenting, Roman leans in closer.  “So you want that massage now?”

“Actually,” Dean says, bumping Roman’s shoulder with his own, “I really wanna get to the part where you’re massaging my dick.  With your ass.  Can we get to that part now?  Or do we gotta keep bein’ adorable or whatever for your Periscope thing?”

“We can do whatever we want,” Roman assures him.  He gives the camera a lazy wave.  “On that note, folks, we’re gonna end the stream here.  My boyfriend and I have a busy day ahead of us.”

“Starin’ with us _gettin’_ busy,” Dean says, all lazy and contented.  “Bye.”

“Later, y’all.  Thanks for watching.  We’ll catch you again sometime soon.”  Shaking his head, Roman ends the stream and tosses his phone onto the far side of the bed.  “You’re terrible.”

Dean looks over at him, sleepy warm and bedroom eyes, a smile tucking up the corners of his mouth.  “‘Course I am.  Have you met me?”

Roman rolls his eyes.  “I have met you a time or two, Ambrose, yeah.  So.  It’s official now, huh?”

“Like you said, everyone pretty much knew anyway, right?  So, yeah.  That’s cool.”  Dean shifts a little.  “We actually got a bigger problem than that right now anyway.”

“What’s that?” Roman asks, frowning.

“The lube’s missing.”  Dean points at the empty nightstand beside him.  “I think somebody hid it.  If you’re gonna give my dick an ass-massaging, we need to find it. I hope no aliens stole it.  I heard rumors some of them do probes and shit.  They’d need lube for that.  Especially an industrial mega-sized bottle like yours was.  You better get it back from them fast.  My dick is kinda hurtin' for that massage.  You do it waaaaay better than anyone else.”

And all Roman can do is laugh.

_Idiot._

_His_ idiot, though.

His funny, strange, amazing, ridiculous idiot of a boyfriend.

And now the world knows it.

“Damn right I do,” he says, climbing over Dean’s butt to go grab the lube.  “Now roll over and let’s get that dick massaged.”

[ _End_ ]


	8. "And Many More..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Girthday fic written for CBD on Tumblr. Fluff, fluff, and more fluff.

**"And Many More..."**

Two days post-TLC, and Dean’s never been more grateful that tomorrow is Wednesday.

Just a flight home, and three days of no falling off ladders, no tables or chairs, and no fucking Ellsworth getting in his fucking way.

It still grinds his gears that James screwed everything up for him, but in the cold light of day, he’s gotta admit it’s his own fucking fault.  He was so busy using James to fuck with Styles that he didn’t realize that he was creating the monster in James that would be his own undoing.  The delusional jackass actually thought he stood a chance to beat AJ alone.

And once again, Dean found himself holding the short end of the stick for the most asinine fucking reason.

At least a TV didn’t blow up in his face again this time, he guesses.

Alone in the locker room, freshly showered, he pulls on a tee shirt and a hoodie, not really paying attention to much of anything.  Here in a minute, Jey and Jimmy will be here to collect him, and they’ll meet up with a few others for some beers at the sports bar near their hotel.

Given a choice, he’d rather be back in Vegas with Roman, but that’s not gonna happen until next week.  Roman had to fly back to Florida to go see his mom today.  She hadn’t been feeling well, and Roman was concerned enough to head down there.  Dean had been a little disappointed, but he understood: Roman’s close with his mom, and wants to be there for her.  Nothing wrong with that.

Roman had promised a cake and a belated birthday blowjob to make up for it.

Dean fully intends to hold him to that.

For now:  Jey and Jimmy Uso bound into the locker room, rowdy and bright.  Twins.  He’s weirdly proud of how he can tell them apart at a glance now.  They’re just exactly what he needs to get in the mood to party.

Jey grins at him, grabs his bag off the floor.  “C’mon, birthday boy.”

“You hear that?” Jimmy asks, nudging Dean’s shoulder.  “I hear beers callin’ our name.  Let’s hit it, uce.”

And despite the knot his spine feels like it’s been tied into - _fucking ladders_ \- Dean finds himself grinning as he lets Jimmy and Jey haul him to his feet.  They’re not blood family, but they’re close enough.  Damn good friends, anyway.  On their way out the arena, they round up Swagger and Slater, Naomi and Becky and a few others, all of whom are down to party tonight.

They’re a motley crew, but they’re all good people.

Best part is not one of them suggests bringing Ellsworth along.

After they drop their rentals off at the hotel, they all walk down to this sports bar a couple blocks away.  It’s this nothing-fancy place that has pretty good wings and a lot of cheap beer, and one Dean particularly likes because it’s rarely busy Monday and Tuesday nights.

Tonight’s no exception: the place is basically empty except for a couple dudes up at the bar.  Jey directs everybody to push a few tables together at the back while Jimmy heads up to order drinks and appetizers.

Dean settles in at the end of the table - “the special spot”, according to Jey - and proceeds to tip his chair back.  The walls are cluttered with sports memorabilia - jerseys, magazine covers, framed photographs - and the place has the dim, kind of homey feel of other bars he’d spent birthdays in before.

It’s not the massage and birthday blowjob he was hoping for, but it’s the next best thing.

He’s not feeling all that talkative, so once the first drinks hit the table, he splits his attention between a rerun of a football game and the conversations going on.  It’s mostly Jimmy and Jey talking over each other, Naomi rolling her eyes at them, and everyone else talking about the holidays and shit.

At some point, Jimmy catches Dean’s eye.  “You comin’ down to Florida at all this year?”

For Christmas.  Dean nods.  “I’ll be there, like, around noon on the 23rd.  My mom and my sister are gonna be in Detroit for the show on the 20th.  I’m gonna spend a couple days with them.  Then I’ll fly down.”  He hadn’t gotten to Florida last year just because of the stupid schedule.  It’s better this year.  “So, yeah, I’ll get a couple days at least.”

“That’s good,” Jimmy says.  “We missed ya last year.  I know Roman did.”

It always makes Dean feel weird when people say shit like that to him, so he shrugs it off.  “I just hope his mom’s okay.”

Jimmy smiles.  “She’s tough.”

Becky, who’s sitting on Dean’s right, looks over suddenly and flips her hair over her shoulders.  In the dim light of the bar, the copper almost looks red.  It’s nice, either way.  She picks up her beer.  “Bet ya miss him tonight, huh?  Roman?”

Dean shrugs.  It’s no secret he and Roman are a thing, but to this day it’s still weird that people actually want to talk to him about it.  “I mean, I’ll see him next week.  It’s no big deal.”

“It’s your birthday,” Becky insists.  “‘Course it’s a big deal.”

“His mom’s sick,” Dean points out.  “That’s a bigger deal.”

“She’ll be all right,” Jimmy tells Becky.  “They think it’s just a sinus infection.”

Some kind of weird look goes between those two, like they know something.  Dean ignores them and goes back to watching the football game.  Texans and the Packers.  Not particularly riveting.

“You not havin’ fun?” Becky asks during a commercial.  “You’re not smilin.”

“No, I’m good,” Dean says, sipping his beer.  It’s going a little flat already.  “Just chill.  How ‘bout you?  How sore are you after Sunday?”

“I couldn’t get outta bed this morning,” she admits.  At the other end of the table, Swagger and Slater laugh about something that Dean could have sworn had to do with an alligator.  He doesn’t ask, and Becky doesn’t even appear to have noticed.  “I feel like I’ve been in a car crash.  I bet you do, too.”

“I always do,” Dean admits.  “But I hear ya.  I feel terrible.”

“Must be your old age,” Becky says with this cheeky smile.

“Funny,” Dean mutters into his beer.

Becky laughs.  “Oh, come on.  Don’t be a grouch.  I bet I can make you smile.”

Dean swallows some more beer, tips back in his chair, narrows his eyes at her.  “That sounds like a challenge.”

“It’s a challenge,” Becky replies, sly and smiling, and now the whole table is watching them.  “A bet, actually.  If can get ya to smile even a little, then you gotta wrestle in a special shirt I give you next week.  I’m not gonna tell you what it is now, but you gotta wear it either Saturday or Sunday.”

“Only if it’s something really fucking inappropriate,” Dean says.  “I mean _really_ inappropriate.  Like filthy.  If I’m gonna get in trouble, it better be over something worth it.”

“You’ll see when you lose,” is all she says.

“ _If_ I lose,” Dean corrects her.  “I’m pretty sure I’m gonna win.  I got a hell of a poker face. So _when_ I win, what do I get?”

Becky’s gaze shifts briefly to a point over Dean’s shoulder and back again.  “You’re gonna lose, trust me.  But if by some miracle you manage not to smile, we’ll come up with somethin.  Are we on, then?”

Dean smiles one last time just to get it out of his system.  “Bring it on.”

“You all heard that,” Becky says to everyone at the table.  They’re still watching, and a couple of them are already grinning themselves.  “A bet’s a bet.”

Jey nods.  “Get him.  Birthday boy there don’t stand a chance.”

“Thanks,” Dean says dryly.  He finishes off his beer and tips his chair a little further back.  “Gimme your best shot, Becky.”

Becky cracks her knuckles.  “You ready?  Here goes.  When I get naked in the bathroom, my shower gets turned on.”  She pauses a beat, grinning.  “Get it?”

“I get it,” Dean says evenly.  So far so good.  Not even a twitch.  “Gonna have to do better than that.”

“Oh, I’m just gettin’ started,” she says, and she sounds real smug.  “Why couldn’t the skeleton deliver bad news?  Because it didn’t have the heart.”

Nothing.  He yawns just to be an asshole.

“Deja- _moo_ , huh?” Becky says.  “Feelin’ like you’ve heard this bullshit before?”

Dean bites the inside of his lip.  “Not bad.  Deja-moo.”

“Well, I’m always on time with my jokes,” she says.  “I guess you could say I’m pretty _pun_ -cutal.  Get it?”

That one’s a groaner.  Dean rolls his eyes.  “Got it.”

She doesn’t look fazed, and that little smile she’s got doesn’t waver.  “You know how to defeat your enemies?  You chop off their feet.  De-feet?”

Dean almost loses it at that one.  It’s fucking awful, but it’s also so stupid it’s actually funny.  He pulls in a deep breath through his nose and focuses on Swagger’s face.  That’s not funny.  “Nice.  Next?”

“You know what makes snowmen smile?  Snow blowers.”

“I think I’ve heard that one before,” Dean says.  “Gonna have to do better than that.”

Again, Becky’s gaze shifts to a point over Dean’s shoulder and back again.  She leans closer to him.  “Ready for the big one?  Okay.  So.  Look behind ya.”

Confused, Dean blinks at her.  “What?”

“Turn around,” she says, pointing.  “Look behind ya.”

The whole damn table is grinning at him.  He feels like he’s getting played, but eventually he does look around, slowly.

Only to find Roman standing there all casual, looking like sex on legs in a tight black tee shirt and jeans.  He’s got a white cake box in hand and a big-ass smile on his face.  “Surprise.  Heard a rumor it’s almost your birthday.”

Dean can’t help an answering smile.  “Dunno where you heard _that_.”

The whole table erupts suddenly: “You smiled!”  and “You lost, Dean!” and “Ya lost, Deano!”

It’s only then Dean realizes he’s been played.  “Oh, fuck you guys,” he says, flipping them all off.  “Are you kidding me?”

“You lost, babe,” Roman says.  He’s a jackass.  “Becky, I expect to see pictures of that shirt.”

“Will do,” she says, rising with her beer.  “There’s an empty seat here.  I’ll just go sit down by Jack.”

“I don’t want him to sit by me,” Dean says, mock-sulky.  “He made me lose a bet.  I don’t want people like that next to me.  I get screwed outta stuff enough as it is in the ring.”

Roman snorts and bumps Dean’s shoulder on the way to sitting down in Becky’s now-unoccupied chair.  “Oh, ya big baby.  I even brought you cake.”

Said cake ends up in front of where Dean’s sitting, and turns out to have white frosting with the words, “ _Happy Birthday, Dean_!” written on it.  Dean narrows his eyes at Roman.  “What kind is it?”

“Vanilla-chocolate,” Roman says.

Despite himself, Dean smiles again.  “You remembered.”

That earns him another nudge and, “Well, _yeah_.”

At which point Naomi turns to Jimmy and says, “Why can’t _you_ remember things like that?”

“Hey, come on,” Jimmy protests.  “I try!  I’m sorry I forgot you like...uh...chocolate?”

“Red velvet,” Naomi says frostily.  “I like red velvet.”

Jimmy shoots Roman a dirty look across the table.  “Thanks for making me look bad, uce.”

Roman grins back.  “Anytime, man.”

“Thought your mom was sick, Rome,” Dean says then, signalling the bartender for another round.

“Nah, she’s fine,” Roman says.  “Sorry I lied.  I wanted to surprise you.  Plus, I haven’t seen everybody in forever.”  He waves.  “Hey.”

“‘S up, bro?” Slater says.  “You’re late.  We were worried you wouldn’t get here.”

“Ah, took me a forever to get the cake,” Roman says.  “They got it mixed up and thought I said tomorrow.  I had to kind of stand over ‘em to get ‘em to get it done tonight.  But they did, and here I am.  You like your surprise, Dean?”

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Dean says.  “I wasn’t expecting to get cake today.  This is the fucking best.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Roman says.  “Better watch it, baby boy.  I’m fixin’ to take you over my knee and give you your birthday spankings.”

Dean barks a laugh.  “Kinky.  But that’s maybe something we should do in private, huh?  Kinda think nobody wants to see that.”

“I might,” Becky says.

“Well, Roman’s gonna blow my candle later, too, so…”

It might be payback for the bet.  Possibly.  Plus, he fucking _lives_ for that look of complete mortification that crosses Roman’s face.  It’s just the fucking _best_ .  “Dean, how in the hell do you manage to-?  Every time.  Your _candle_?  Really?”

“What?” Dean says, lacing his hands together behind his head.  “I could have said you were gonna suck my-”

“ _Dean_!” Roman yells, eyes popping open wide.  “Not in public.  What did I tell you about that?”

“That’s why I said _blow my candle_ ,” Dean says, all reasonable and shit.  Winding Roman up is a hobby.  It’s the basically his second-favorite thing to do with Roman.  Besides sex.  “Do I need to point out that you started it with that kinky talk?  Not in public, huh?  I see how it is.  It’s okay if you do it, but not me.”

He loves Roman so fucking much, especially the Roman who’s promising things in a real heated look right about now.  Sex tonight is going to be a fucking blast.

The bartender brings over their next round of beers and a whole pile of wings right then, which is probably a good thing considering Dean’s already popping half a chub at the thought of getting his candle blown later.

Once the bartender’s gone, Dean looks over at Roman again.  “Did you bring actual candles for the cake?”

Roman pauses in the act of reaching for a wing.  “Oh!  Yeah, I did.”  He pulls a wax number three and a wax number  one out of his back pocket.  They’re white with blue trim.

Dean raises eyebrows at them.  “Ass candles?”

“Yes, Dean,” Roman says indulgently.  “Ass candles for a jackass.”

They eat their wings and drink their beers, everyone growing looser and more comfortable as the evening wears on.  Dean catches Roman up on the latest Ellsworth bullshit, and Roman fills Dean in about what’s going on with Kevin Owens over on _Raw_.  Roman bullshits with his cousins for a bit while Dean goes and talks to Naomi and Becky and the rest of the guys.

At some point, somebody - Slater, Dean thinks - suggests they light the candles and sing “Happy Birthday.”

Roman sets the candles up in the frosting and touches Slater’s lighter to them.  Once they’re lit, this odd little group of people who’ve become his friends over the past few years sings him “Happy Birthday.”  They’re off-key and a couple of them are too slow.

It’s fucknig perfect.

After they finish, Dean, standing at the head of the table, bends down to blow out the candles.

“Make a wish first,” Roman tells him.

“I don’t believe in that crap,” Dean says.  “Even if I did, what I would’ve wished for already happened.  You know.  I got a cake.  And some jerk-off I know - who fucking lied to me and lost me a bet - showed up.  So.  You know.  Plus, I’m gonna get my candle blown later.  There’s that, too.  Can’t think of what else I’d wish for.”

“Dean?” Roman says.  He’s soft-eyed and smiling.  Just this side of buzzed.

“Hmm?”

“Shut up and blow out your candles.”

Dean does, gently blowing the 3-1 out.  It’s 12:05 in the morning.

When he straightens, Roman slips an arm around his shoulders and smiles.  “Happy birthday, babe.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, glancing around the table.

And he thinks, _Yeah.  Yeah, happy birthday to me_.

It really is.

* * *

 

The following Saturday, Becky hands him a gray tee shirt with the word _#Ambooty_ written across the front in blue.  On the back it says, _There’s no booty like Ambooty_.

It has an arrow pointing down at his ass.

“The fuck does this even _mean_?” he asks Becky, bewildered.

Becky laughs at him and holds up her phone so she can take pictures.  “Roman’ll understand.”

And when Dean finishes his match with AJ, he returns to the locker room to find two text messages from Roman.

 _Damn right_ , says the first.

 _That booty is mine next time I see it_ , says the second.

Dean snorts and throws his phone back into his bag.

 _Happy fuckin’ birthday to me_ , he thinks, smiling to himself.

 _Happy fuckin’ birthday to me_.

[End]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [here](https://madder-jester.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. New blog. Same me.


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